...make sure the undertaker doesn't cremate me with my gold teeth in. They must be worth at least £400, so you can all go out for a meal on my fillings. Kirsty's getting the rest of the jewellery, Julian can have the clothes and you can have the mule chest. You're an executor, you know, so you're not to just give away the antiques to the Salvation Army, do you hear? I think it's Portugal that's nearly killed me. It was far too hot. 25 degrees at least. I just can't cope with that kind of heat any more. Not with my blood pressure being sky high all the time. And I can't cope with the airports. Or the airlines. Or the air hostesses. Or the food. Or the language. Or the money. Or the smoking bans left, right and centre. Or the lack of decent antiques. I just pine for Dagfields, that's the problem. They don't know a Regency Davenport from a drop-leaf washstand with barley-twist legs, the Portuguese.
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