middle-aged rant mode this morning. It is unbecoming, but one cannot help it when one has irritations,’ Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen says, marching me from the gates of his 17th-century Cotswold pile to his front door.Said gates have just electronically parted to reveal Llewelyn-Bowen – hair fabulous, grey-flecked goatee and sideburns hewn to Cavalier perfection, bespoke cerulean suit with black-and-white boating stripes a knockout, black buckled boots gleaming – like the arrival of a particularly scene-stealing pantomime villain.The gates should be remote-controlled, you see, ‘But I can’t find any bloody dibbers!
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