I’m out of hospital; rattling with pills, my veins ruined from ineptly inserted catheters. I snuck out as all the medics can do now is “monitor” me and my iPhone can do that.
I’m an infamous runaway-patient and expertly remove catheters as other mothers remove splinters.
My family have been conspiring in my hospital escapes since I first gave birth to my daughter in the bath, assuring all I wasn’t in labour at all. I just needed a “nice little soak.”
O’Connell women have a predisposition for absconding & dissent and my husbands and children have aided me in my Mayfair Escapades more than expected, despite my prenup full disclosure.
I strictly adhere to tradition etiquette & good-manners but hospital-confinement, panjandrums & men-in-polyester-uniforms make me bolt. My children suffered terribly with me constantly urging them to “skip school darling & spend the day with Mummy” at the V&A Fortnum’s or “playing with jewels at Aspreys.”
Probably why they ran away to boarding school.
They were frequently pressed to rescue me in scaling over the church gates of Mount St Gardens when I’d come home from Park Lane revelry after the church gates had already been locked.
For a night in Mayfair I probably could have found an alternative route to our Mount Street flat but when it comes to navigation skills, I score about as low as a Spaniel.
Getting up the blessed gates was a breeze, but once up I couldn’t face the drop. I’d phone the family & they’d all clamber onto the window-seat on Mount St Mayfair & look down on me dangling off the gate post like a distressed cat.
After their laughter & general merriment, the husbands & children would eventually clamber down the four flights of stairs with the ladder & rescue me.
Throughout my self-inflicted “spot-of-bother” (as I described these regular predicaments to my own mad-madre) Jesuit Priests, Mayfair doormen & patrons of Scott’s would amble past without a second glance.
It takes more than a Mad-Mayfair-Matron in six-inch crocodile shoes dangling from the church gates to raise an eyebrow in My Manor!
Not without reason has Mayfair & St James’s been home to Roman Catholics eccentrics royals spies & bluestocking-salons.