I RARELY go to London. Too "big city" for me. I don’t know my way round the underground, driving through it is confusing and the bus system is a mystery.

But my daughter Bryony and granddaughter Jess wanted to go to a particular musical in London. We were lucky enough to get tickets and my sister, who lives in Rotherhithe, was keen for us to visit.

Promising the dogs, poultry, sheep and, oh yes John, I would be back, and making sure that he in particular had a survival pack of meals, we set off to London.

Not exactly with a spotted handkerchief, but anticipating a different outlook of streets and more streets, instead of fields and yet more fields.

What we had not realised was that Soho, where our theatre was situated, would become a magnet for the Gay Pride marchers and the "Football’s Coming Home" celebrations. It created a joyous atmosphere, if somewhat unlikely joint participants.

Going there, the tube was choc a bloc with rainbow clad revellers, wonderfully outrageous costumes, bucket loads of sequins and glitter, singing, dancing. There were the Gay Pride marchers too.........but most astonishing of all on the tube , where usually nobody ever looks anyone else in the eye, smiles and laughter.

Leaving the theatre, as we made our way across London, the match celebrations mingled with the party atmosphere of the marchers.

It was just tipping into the slightly out of hand riotous and manic, but at no time seemed threatening. I’ve felt more worried in the fold yard when the cows were bulling and racing madly around in a confined place than I did in the depths of the tube with tipsy England revellers.

Driving back the next day, my daughter suggested that instead of dropping me off at the farm, which was one option, I rang John and asked if he would meet us at an out of town shopping centre.

Now John does not have a mobile phone, but did promise, knowing that plans might be changed at the last minute, to regularly check the answerphone. And I duly left a detailed message, including parking instructions. Necessary I thought because , as John does not shop, unless for livestock, farm equipment, shooting and fishing requirements, out of town shopping malls are a new world to him.

Surprisingly John was not there when we parked, nor half an hour later after I had patrolled every car park at the front of the mall.

“There’s a car park round the back of the centre,” my daughter said “I’ll just drive round and see if he is there.” And, of course, he was. Despite a weekend partially immersed in football terminology, I had personified female footballing stereotypes. In explaining which road to take into the mall, I had muddled my nearside and offside.

Luckily I did not receive an indirect free kick, but did get my lift home.