Saturday was my 50th birthday party and what a day! A rich stew of too-much-of-everything.

Sunday was clearing up and then a dinner invitation in the evening. This was most special - and my birthday present from Richard Gilbey - not dinner at the Ivy or other posh restaurant, somewhere much, much more special and select - High Table at Queens' College, Cambridge. Money cannot buy this privelege directly (though a substantial donation to the College Chapel restoration fund would probably procure the result) and the experience has left a deep impression on me. Let me describe it...

We arrived at the college and enjoyed a short walk around the Cripps building and a look at Mathematicians' Bridge before going up to the Combination Room for sherry with the Fellows. There we were introduced first to John Holmes (M.A., Vet.M.B., Ph.D., M.R.C.V.S. Bye-Fellow, Lay Chaplain, Chaplain, Dean of Chapel, Keeper of the Records) who introduced himself by explaining that, although he was an ordained minister of the church (hence the dog-collar) he was in fact a vetinarian and due to lecture the following day on "the hind leg". I'd been aware, from the start, that we'd wandered into a Tom Sharpe novel and here we were, talking to the Dean of the Chapel only to discover that he's a vicar and a vet. But multiple qualifications seemed to be the order of the day as the very next person we met was a Dr Diana Henderson who is both a Doctor of History, a fully qualified military lawyer and a full Colonel - the first woman to command a British regiment no less.

I felt very stupid and undistinguished in such elevated company.

The next person I met (someone venerable and senior in the college though I instantly forgot his name) turned out to be a  linguistics expert and player of the sackbutt. The sackbutt!!!

I promise I'm not making this up! There's more...

A gong was rung to announce dinner and the twenty or so of us trooped down a flight of stairs and into an enormous, wood-panelled banqueting hall where approximately 250 people promptly stood up as we enetered and took our seats at High Table. Grace was said in Latin by the Dean and then we all sat down. I spent much of the first ten minutes just taking in the room, it's occupants and the ambience. The walls were hung with oil paintings of anteceding Deans and Masters plus the odd old queen - no pun intended ;) The food was excellent. The Lamb was particularly good and served with stuffed tomatos and broccoli (the predominace of older men at High Table lead me to suppose that Chef was on prostate patrol - these two being ingredients in the ideal anti-prostate cancer diet) and a mint jus. The wine, a Morgon, was like velvet.

Later, over coffee in the Combination Room, the conversation skittered crazily from topic to topic. I sat there thinking that they were all quite mad and harmless when a tiny throw-away comment reminded me that these affable old dons actually wield enourmous power through the accumulated wealth of centuries. Someone asked where I lived and I replied, "Thriplow, near Fowlmere". His reply was "Ah yes, I know Fowlmere - we own Fowlmere. Have done since 1273." The scary thing is that he wasn't being ironic.