Clarence tells me that the BBC are reporting that a rare blue diamond is on display prior to auction at Sotheby's. Sounds like an interesting trinket for the Memsahib. I also want to pick up a further Monet. At present we have three on the stairs, but a fourth would make the set. (It might also stop Arabella from singing "Monet, monet, monet; it's a rich man's world" every time she climbs the staircase).

I had a flash of inspiration the other day – I have decided to co-opt the family into my campaign to improve the standard of writing at the office. At weekends I have started bringing home some of the duller technical documents produced by the team, and the heirs’ role is to provide suitably enlivening embellishments.

The girls have been sprinkling the text with metaphors taken from their favourite nineteenth century authors while Tarquin, bless him, is adding an apt quotation from Virgil or Horace to each title page.
You can’t imagine the expressions on my team’s faces when I return them on Monday morning.

I am spitting blood over the "Budget" - I lend significant sums in both bullion and cash to help bail the country out of its financial crisis - and that charlatan in Downing Street has the temerity to raise my taxes.

The weather is looking settled. 

I am tempted to take the motorcycle when I head for Worcester tomorrow. I need to get the feel of my beloved Incitatus as I sweep down the highways with the wind in my hair (metaphorically) and the gentle touch of leather on silk.

I will check with Clarence, but believe that this weekend is the first meeting of the year for my Posh Pistons chapter of the Angelum Infernum 

With all the fuss recently about anti-capitalist demonstrations, I have given some thought to safeguarding myself when in the city (the Lady Hermione touchingly expressed some concern last night, while browsing some life insurance literature).

My first strategy was quickly ruled out by Tarquin, who reminded me that a twelve bore can't legally be used on anarchists, even after the twelfth. So a more subtle approach was called for. I have decided instead to cultivate a disguise - an alter ego if you will - that should attract considerably less attention than I normally do when out and about.

To this end I have appointed Osbourne to advise me on sartorial matters, and to drill me in the ways of the common man. He scoffed somewhat at my first attempt, pointing out that the mere substitution of a less expensive Rolex did not, in itself, effect the desired air of impecuniosity. The good chap took me in hand, allowing me to try on a few of his own estate clothes until we had constructed a most passable rendering of vulgarity.

Osbourne reminded me that the appearance was only one aspect of the character; if I am to be convincing in my new persona then I also need to adopt a suitable vernacular and mannerisms. I suggested that I accompany him one evening to the local hostelry - in full costume of course - where I can join his circle of acquaintances and soak up the coarse ambience. It might just have been the light, but it seemed to me that he turned quite a peculiar colour.

Following the family tradition we allowed villagers to come on an Easter parade, egg hunt, and egg rolling competition in the grounds. A few hundred turned up with their children in tow. It's always so interesting to see what they can achieve stitching together scraps of fabric to make outfits and hats.

I insisted that the staff join in with the event and that they dressed up as Easter Bunnies. This seemed to go well, except for Osborn. He strolled out of the stable block with black fishnets, a black bodice (with a fluffy white tail), and some furry ears on a headband. I am not convinced he has got the right image in his mind.

The Memsahib, Persephone, and Arabella judged the parade. This was done by tapping candidates on the shoulder to remove them from the parade, until 3 were left. I'm sure that Persephone is going to be a great entropreneur as she insisted on approaching the children in the parade, pointing at them, and say "You're fired". The three that survived were graded 1st, 2nd, and 3rd and given rosettes and a small token (£100, £50, and £25) respectively. They seemed very grateful.

The egg hunt went without major incident, though an ambulance was called when the geese and swans decided to defend their territory. (Will these people never learn?)

The egg rolling was great fun as the families made their way to the top of one of the steeper hills in the grounds and then tried to roll their eggs to the bottom without breaking them. There was a stewards enquiry regarding a couple of eggs that were patently made from alabaster or marble rather than being natural. These were disqualified. 

As usual there the usual thrills and spills as families charged down the slope after their eggs. It was a great success. This year we only saw a handful of broken bones, and the cases of concussion were kept below the record 22 of last year. Quite managable - and treated by St John's Ambulance brigade as one of the primary training exercises of the year.

Well it's Easter. Maginficent smells are wafting from the kitchen as Dawkins prepares a feast worthy of the festival. I haven't checked on the menu (that is the Memsahib's domain) but have no doubt it will be excellent.

We have just had our traditional "Egg" ceremony where each gives a painted or chocolate egg to each of the other family members. I must say the girls where quite taken with theirs and are still playing inside it, and the Memsahib was delighted with several small "confections" I had acquired by Faberge.

I have received in today's mail a brocher from Frauscher. They do make lovely boats. We have several moored by the lakes, but by way of this brochure they are introducing me to their latest model.

The special edition "686 Lido Dino Feltrinelli" looks ideal for pottering about in the nice weather.

I’m already starting to notice an improvement in the standard of writing in the office. The staff are taking a real pride in their work, and often stay late to polish their documents and discuss the quality of each other’s prose.

Not wanting to let up, I have scheduled a series of educational sessions for the team, in a format often used at the company – the “lunch and learn”. As the name suggests, the usual arrangement is that those who can attend in person bring along sandwiches, while the others dial in to a sophisticated piece of telephonic equipment. All of this seemed a trifle vulgar to me, so I have decided to host the events at the club instead. The King George Hall has been reserved, and the team will be ferried there in a few of my older Jags (Osbourne will deploy seat covers - some of the staff wear rather grubby clothes).

I have asked Heston to provide the catering, now that he has the Fat Duck up and running again - but I’ve asked him to leave norovirus off the menu.

Whilst looking over Tarquin's shoulder I noticed he was reading something called "Born Rich" on the interwebnet (or whatever). Very interesting. In fact, I have decided to take up one of their offers and have the sound system in the Astons removed and replaced with Bang & Olufsen equipment. 

We said farewell to the Obamas this evening after their short stay. Of course, the "goody bag" we gave them was far superior to the one they received from that cheapskate Brown. Apart from the obvious items (fine champagne, truffles ...) we also included - at Michelle's request - a couple of Tshirts emblazoned with the name of that most excellent beat combo, Cardinal Sin and the Bum Notes. The Obama daughters are apparently keen fans, and were heartbroken by recent rumours in the musical press that the lead singer is soon to depart. I assured them that the band is to continue performing.

The Obamas arrived earlier this evening. I told their entourage that the estate was comfortably large enough to receive Air Force One directly, but they chose to ferry them in by helicopter.

I had the staff line up outside to be inspected (Dawkins was still scowling). Sadly the junior Obamas were otherwise engaged, so the heirs didn't get the chance to thrash them on the Wii, as they had planned.

The Lady Hermione was, as ever, the perfect hostess (praise be to that most wonderful of institutions, the Swiss finishing school). I entertained Barack in the billiards room and shared some of my ideas for tackling the financial crisis. He was impressed, and said he'd be sure to raise them tomorrow. Even Dawkins relented from her sulk long enough to prepare a delicious terrine of stickleback and artichoke.

You will, of course, read that the Obamas are safely ensconced somewhere else - obviously a ruse for security purposes. The only reason Special Branch are allowing me to post this entry is that no terrorists read my blog (apparently).

Dawkins flew off the handle when I told her about the Obamas staying next week. She said no self-respecting Michelin-starred chef would stoop to preparing hamburgers and chilli dogs for a bunch of ex-colonials. A bit OTT, even by her standards. And what is a chilli dog, anyway? Sounds like one of those awful "hip hop" people that Tarquin likes.

Anyhow, I'm sure I can sweet talk her. Meanwhile, I've been getting Osbourne busy around the estate, putting up the "stars and stripes" in prominent positions.

Dined at the club this evening with Algernon Froume. I’ve known Algie since we played rugger together at Westminster School, and for the last twenty years he’s been at the Foreign Office. Tonight, he looked more than usually concerned.

“Bit of a fix, old boy” he said ruefully, nursing his second cognac. “We were all set for the G20 next week, and then – kapow. Obama’s people took a look around the suite we’d lined up for him, and told us it wouldn’t do. Apparently he wants a good, old-fashioned English experience – you know - oak panels, turrets, crenellations, the works.

He paused for a second and stared into his brandy. “We were wondering if you might consider putting him up … he’d go bananas over your place. Remember how the Clintons lapped it up? You had to kick them out in the end.”

How could I refuse? As I was ferried back to the estate by Osbourne, I started to make plans for the latest VIP to grace its guest suite.

I have recently been giving some thought to the family image. “Surely, it couldn’t be any better?” you might think. As did I, Reader, until I had lunch the other day with publicist - and long standing acquaintance - Max Clifford.

Mr. Clifford is well versed in the ways of the modern media and cultivating profiles.
“To really hit the big time”, he said to me over a port, “what you need is a decent brand. You know, like Charles with his Duchy Originals”. I had to admit to some excitement at the thought of rivalling His Royal Highness with produce from my own fair estate.

That evening I sounded out Dawkins on the possibility of her turning out a few thousand jars of her delicious asparagus chutney on her days off. She seemed oddly unenthusiastic.

The English improvement campaign begins. My first act was to equip the office with a kind of “swear box”, except that forfeits are payable for grammatical faux pas and the more egregious spelling mistakes. The staff have taken it in good humour, and I have promised to donate all proceeds to the Lord’s Taverners.

I have also purchased, from my own pocket, a number of copies of the latest book by the estimable Miss Truss, and left them about the place for the benefit of the casual browser. There has been a good take-up already – I even noticed that one of the workmen fitting out the office kitchen was dipping into one during his lunch breaks.

Generally I notice a new buzz about the place, and I could swear I even heard someone say “notwithstanding” this afternoon.

Just because I allowed them to use my box at Twickers those young Windsors had the cheek to ask if they could use it again - assuming that I wouldn't be using it. Well they were out of luck (though I let them in for glass of Champagne at half-time while I was down in the dressing room giving my customary pep talk.

I was very satisfied with the outcome - it stirs the heart: Crecy, Agincourt, Waterloo - and Twickers. One very wealthy Gallic chum was so upset he banged his head as he jumped up in frustration. We left this Stunned Frog Millionaire nursing his bruised head and ego as he wandered away, dejected.

The only low spot of the weekend was the disappointing showing by cousin Silvio's Italian team.

I see that British Airways have a sale, offering reductions on fare to the Cayman Islands. I suppose that would be worth knowing if one had to use commercial airlines.

Last night's concert is a bit of a blur. 

My plan to fade into the background was thwarted as I was recognised as soon as I entered the venue with my small retinue of followers and hangers-on. The band insisted that by acting as Master of Ceremonies for the evening I would be establishing a level of class and respectability for the band. Notwitstanding my reticence, I agreed and took the stage to manage the proceedings.

It was an excellent show - though I did become aware of some bootleg recordings being made.

The "Rock and Roll" lifestyle is not for me. (I wonder if I should feature a "Cardinal Sin & the Bum Notes" on my upcoming "Desert Island Discs" appearance).

Cardinal Sin and the Bum Notes are finishing their world tour this evening at their home venue in Worcester. All the funds raised are being given to charity - which is a nice gesture.

There is an auction and raffle planned.

I did consider putting an "Evening with..." myself as one of the prizes, but felt that would defeat much of the anonymity I have managed to maintain. Another thought was a week on one of my islands... but I doubt many of these people actually have passports or have flown and it would be wrong to so embarrass them.

Anyway, I will attend the concert and blend quietly into the background.