When Mr. Bingley announced he was to hold a ball at Netherfield, Mrs. Bennet nearly added 50 kittens to her offspring, so thrilled was she at the prospect. Her head went into a spinning-top of anticipation, which Jane Austen captured perfectly in her subtle and sardonic way. Austen didn’t need to spell out the intensity of Mrs. Bennet’s excitement; we understood, we got it, we knew she was in fact screaming, “What the f*ck am I going to wear?!” whilst throwing petticoats, dresses and gloves about the bedroom, futilely calling Mr. Bennet a bastard and threatening that if he didn’t locate her best muff, there would be no muff for him either.

Imagine then, the emotional frenzy she would experience if faced with The Cartier Polo. As one of the most prestigious occasions in the social calendar, and with more single men in possession of a good fortune present than in a school assembly at Eton, it would be the only event worthy of her diary. Her girls would be primed and not allowed home until they’d found themselves a suitor.

I, on the other hand, have no current desire to be anybody’s wife and so at the end of last week, having done ten nights out on the trot, decided to give the polo a miss. As it drew closer however, I started to question my decision and when I received a call from a smooth talking gentleman - who I had apparently met at a drinks party the week before - inviting me to attend. I relented.

We were to have lunch in Chukkas (the hospitality tent offered by Keith Prowse) located within The Smith’s Lawn Enclosure. Only VIPs attending one of the four prestigious hospitality ‘tents’ (The Cartier, Chinawhite, Members’ and Chukkas) can access this area, meaning this patch of immaculate grass draws as many spectators and paps around its parameters as the polo match itself.

Keen to avoid running a celebrity gauntlet of air-kisses, I ducked straight into Chukkas. Across the sea of beautiful and vibrant flowers, I recognized the piercing eyes and broad-shoulders of my date. I accepted a glass of chilled Champagne and made my way towards him. He greeted me with the charm and ease of Bingley himself but had a mysterious, appealing streak more akin to the mesmeric Darcy. There was no doubt in my mind that Mrs. Bennet would have had a cardiac arrest as soon as he said hello.

We took our seats for lunch and in perfect unison around the table, were served prawn mousse with ciabatta toasts, followed by tea smoked duck breast with a fennel and peach salad and new potatoes. For pudding we had a passion fruit tart with a tropical fruit skewer. The quality and presentation of the food was what you would expect from a company with over 200 years experience at the forefront of entertainment and hospitality; it was hard to fault any of it.

After lunch, we made our way to the grandstand. Bingley-Darcy (unaware that I have an in-depth knowledge of polo) took the opportunity to lean in close and explain the rules. Well, it would have been rude to stop him.

We returned to Chukkas for tea. Each table held tiered trays of chocolate mousse, scones and cakes, mini-wraps with different fillings and halved egg shells filled with egg mayonnaise and soldiers for dipping. Quite where we found room for it all, I’ll never know but as Chukkas began to empty for another year, my thoughts turned to the Chinawhite tent where we could dance it all off at the notorious after-party.

Strolling over with the beats from Chinawhite drawing us in like a rhythmic mating call, I wondered what Mrs. Bennet would say, if she peeped from within the covers of her existence and caught a glimpse of this epic, polo-orientated, social occasion. “Mr. Bingley,” she’d say, “I have but two words for you; ‘stick’ and ‘ball’.”