Amy mentioned she'd be paying a visit, and we spent yesterday afternoon on one of our usual trips round Berks, Bucks and Oxon, ending up with a very nice pub dinner at a place called the Golden Ball near Assendon. The food took a while but was lovely when it came - recommended if you've got time to spare.

We started off by walking the dog round the sculpture trail, except the dog had already had a walk round the cricket pitch and chose to lie by the fence in the back garden, taking in the rays, studiously ignoring us. So we went round the sculpture trail minus the dog, then did a bit of basking in the sun ourselves on the spacious meadow by the car park.

That photo was taken about five minutes before Amy brought shame on the family, the Dodge, the park, the county and the human race.

As we ambled back down the dusty track near the entrance to find the car, with an elderly lady behind us escorting a medium sized dog, Amy noticed something which apparently required my immediate attention.

"My tits!" She exclaimed. "My tits! There's mud on them!"

Now, I don't know if God has a Reverb button for the dusty track and surrounding woodland, but if he has, he's left it turned up to 11. Amy's succinct observation bounced around the trees like a kangaroo on heat. The medium sized dog and elderly lady froze. Children playing in the distance began to weep. Squirrels fell out of branches.

Having bundled the now delirious Kennedy into the car and away from her horrified public, it emerged that the few specks of mud in question were on her top in that vague area rather than being actually... there. She needn't have panicked a nation. The dog acquired an instantaneous shock-induced perm quite unnecessarily.

We drove on towards Stonor down possibly the only road around Stokenchurch that I've never previously explored. It was beautiful - including one length of road that became a kind of secret boulevard, with vast driveways leading off into the beyond, ginormous houses shrouded in foliage. Still, even the incredibly rich and secretive need a post box:

That post box is in the middle of nowhere on this shady little boulevard, perched a good half a mile from any dwelling, sticking out like a sore thumb. And it's what makes Britain special. Like the postal service in general at the moment, that post box is shockingly striking.

Carrying on down the road, it became apparent that it was quite a bit busier than ought to really be the case. For a tiny, winding lane through rolling countryside in the middle of nowhere, there was a steady stream of traffic going on. The reason soon became clear.

There, appearing out of nowhere on the left hand side, was Stonor Park, home to the country estate and readying itself for an open-air concert that night. Hundreds upon hundreds of cars were stacked up along the lane for miles - Lord knows if they all made it in on time. Of course it might be they weren't going to the open-air concert at all. They'd probably all stopped at the sound of a distant echo...

"... My tits! ... Mud on them! ..."