I find myself this evening in the comparative comfort of a Georgian country house in the South-West of England.

They’ve thoughtfully provided a history of the property in the bedroom. Its early years saw lavish entertainment: Pitt the Younger visited whilst Prime Minister. But (and this is where it gets interesting) it was soon converted into a home for “ladies of gentle birth and their servants”, with preference given to the widows and daughters of clergyman and of naval and army officers.

As if that wasn’t enough to trigger my mind into kinky overdrive, they also ran:

“a school for orphaned girls, like the ladies ‘to be of gentle birth’.”

I wonder if any of the ladies here as conference delegates - or indeed of the ever-so-cute uniformed staff - are game for some historical reanactments? I rather enjoy Regency-era scenes. There’s a birch tree handily positioned next to the car park, and I’m sure I noticed its branches twitching with anticipation as my carriage pulled up…

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