God likes me to eat at the Ritz

Certain members of my extended family have been taking me to task most disrespectfully, making no allowances for my age and infirmities, for having hung around in Nice for some weeks after Christmas, dipping my beak in the Bollinger, instead of dashing back to check on the farm. Useless for me to say that I did this mainly for Venetia's sake as I felt she needed perking up with a bit more sun; they still bandied phrases like "effete old wastrel" about.

So I am pleased that Fiona leaped to my defence, bless her little riding hat. In her peregrinations on the internet she had come across some websites kept by Jesus freaks, and found that one of them described the extreme luxuries enjoyed by American missionaries. On enquiring about this I was told that, far from being reprehensible, this is actually quite godly behaviour, provided that they believe that God wants them to enjoy the good things of life and the hell with the drain on church funds, and that Jesus himself would have stayed at the Savoy if he thought God wanted him to.

This is splendid news, and would have made me feel much better if I had previously been ashamed of giving myself occasional little treats. I suppose, though, that one cannot always be certain just how much godly expenditure is expected of one: I think it is quite likely that it is the will of God that I should change the Bentley this year - after all, it is nearly seven years old - but can I be sure? This wasn't a problem that Jesus ever had to face, the lucky fellow. I must pray for guidance, or perhaps ask Venetia.