symbols were somehow objectives or amusing to those who walked in the shadows of probably the most fascinating caravan of mystique in the world.
I never realized at the time that I knew indirect members of Diana´s family and although I had done business with “Rayne”, having supplied uniformed chauffeurs to practically every member of the business aristocracy, I did not associate her with Diana at the time and I can well imagine just how psychologically disruptive she must have been to daddy´s little girl. Least of all, because the last time she slated me (Rayne), she was married to a Press baron and I was not aware that she had moved on to the Spencer household. I got the sharp edge of the then Lady Dartmouth as a result of the campest chauffeur my business organisation had ever sent to anyone and only because he had done the aristocratic circuitry and knew that he always behaved elegantly with a catty savoir faire which got him through. This time however it would appear that he had had enough of the Lady and was elaborately drawing or gesticulating out her every gesture to amused members of the household not daring to imagine that she was only a foot away on the other side of the garden wall.
“N E V E R, N E V E R SEND ME ANYTHING LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN” she hissed with white hot anger. I felt sure that she had not slept all that night with the need to get it across to me as soon as the first flickers of office hours crept into her vigil. I can well understand her annoyance but then it was Rayne, the famous, larger than life, Rayne whose mother was the inimitable and ageless Barbara Cartland who wrote a book a minute or so throughout her life. She later offered chargeable teas for the privilege of her closeness to the new star in