My father advised me to describe myself as a farmer, except when in the company of real farmers
My wife launched a campaign upon me to buy a place abroad and used the crude but effective tactic of refusing to discuss anything else, diverting every conversation to her need for another home somewhere more clement and less precipitous than this grey, overcrowded island. Her assault soon moved on to the search stage. I refused to consider Portugal and Spain because I don’t play golf and don’t want my land to be dust. We visited Bordeaux, but there are a lot of French there. Next was Italy, and after not long one Tuscan farmhouse began to look like another. So we bought a hotel in Umbria.
Our Italian accountant, Vincenzo, is possibly my new best friend although he seems to charge more than he saves me. I noticed that we share the same birthday, a year apart, and my wife mentioned that she might therefore, astrologically, be romantically compatible with him. I discount this threat on the basis that he wears far too much jewellery, and the dial of his watch is the size of a small plate.
I find that when Italian men speak English they are unintentionally amusing
Vincenzo certainly speaks English with an attractive accent, its tonality pushed through a mesh of gravel covered in rich chocolate. I do, however, find that when Italian men speak English they are unintentionally amusing. When I speak Italian to them the opposite does not seem to apply. They just look baffled.
In a recent meeting he mentioned that the company we have needs to generate an income otherwise, strangely, there will be more tax to pay. I suggested that perhaps we might rent out a room or two when we are not there? As we do not operate it as a hotel anymore there is something called Airbnb? My wife said no, emphatically, and forbids further mention of it. Vincenzo pointed out that our purchase made me President of an agricultural company and so now I must farm in two countries.
There are proper farmers, who sit on tractors and the like. There are “Finger Farmers”, who direct their men to work. And then there are Pinstripe Farmers, which is not a complimentary term. My father advised me to describe myself as a farmer, except when in the company of real farmers — “because you don’t know the price of anything”.
I have a theory that on the continent, political movements swell from the countryside into cities. French farmers riot. Garibaldi marched north from Sicily. Urban elites take note and disburse concessions and treasure to keep the peace. British farmers are weak and largely voiceless, and the culmination is Labour’s spiteful death tax on family farms. In Europe the socialists would not dare.
Dominic, Lord Johnson is very persuasive. I found that when his honeyed tongue recoiled he had adhesively rejoined me as one of the Conservative Party treasurers. He is an old friend and I am certain will prove to be a popular and effective chairman. I am not helping because of him though, but because of Kemi. LOTO has not yet won the approval of this august publication’s otherwise sound editorial staff. However, I have met many politicians and Kemi is quantitively braver, more intelligent and principled than most. Give her time. She will impress you.
To free up time and having become more “politically exposed” I have had to resign from various bodies I was involved with. I shall miss being a non-exec on Lichfield Cathedral’s Chapter. Its governance is enlightened and surprisingly efficient. One should need no excuse to visit its immense yet fragile beauty because, despite quotidian modernising, the dear old Church of England still retains mysterious numinous qualities. Even accounting for its faddish, leftish obsessions (which I ignore), the CoE, compared with our Roman cousins, has less cumulative sin staining its historic reputation. For me this makes it easier to appreciate its institutional kindness and tolerance. I love that.
