Fog makes walking inadvisable. No matter, because Chatsworth is open and ready to rape my wallet. A Christmas fair is up-and-running outside the house. Normal stuff - wreaths, sweets, pickles, beads, candle-holders, felty hats. Mulled wine and hot chocolate, and a great deal of hog-roasting. The place is rammed with over-excited nans, jacked up on fudge, looming out of the fog in newly-acquired felty hats.
Repair to the house, which has been pantomime-themed to the hilt for the festive season. The combination of hideous baroque interior (ormulu and liverish marble) and pantomimery (beanstalks, wishy-washy laundry, cats and spotted hankies) plus even more nans who are photographing everything (baubles, floors, each other) is too much.
Have to retire to the foggy gardens, which are largely nan-free. But they're missing a treat.
Because here is the thing that makes the visit worthwhile. A cherub atop a lion, with a handy dildo strapped to his saddle.
All the better to rape your wallet.
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