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The Bogweevil enjoys Chelsea vicariously - the metropolis is too hot for him, crowds make him anxious, he inadvertently treads on smaller people (which is almost everybody), he gets into a bad mood and glares at people, the gardens are absurd and the marquee oppressive. But Mrs Bogweevil goes, so does her sister, and his sister, and they tell him all about it, again and again, so it feels just as if if has been he has been jostled, amazed, delighted, parched, had glass of champagne, met the nice couple from Wiltshire, queued for the toilets, solved the problem of the wisteria not flowering and staggered home triumphantly on over-crowded commuter trains burdened with bags of catalogues and knick-knacks.
But dress code for chaps it is no big deal - if you wear casual trousers and open necked shirt and ordinary shoes you will be one the best dressed men there. No idea about womens' apparel - never notice it.
Boggy
Beware the bat-eared bogweevil
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