The annual 4 July celebration at Winfield House, which boasts the largest private garden in London after Buckingham Palace, is always curiously held well in advance of US Independence Day. One might say the Americans have learned a thing or two from their former British overlords about the art of manners and diplomacy. This dual national thoroughly approves, even if her mother has been prone to flying a Union Jack on the actual day while Stateside. That Washington and Whitehall have been locked in negotiations over trade issues in recent months was of no bearing on the booze-fuelled transatlantic bonhomie at the Ambassador’s residence. Officials and their ministerial bosses across various departments happily indulged in a menu of hot dogs, beer, ice cream, and bubbles for the more discerning palates. I was happy to bump into ex-Tory MP turned broadcaster extraordinaire Gyles Brandreth, also present at the Speccie Central summer bash. He was aptly attired for the occasion with a Mickey Mouse jumper of which any garish Yank would have been proud. I overheard a senior Cabinet Office minister thanking embassy staff for getting him on the Ambassador’s invite list. Perhaps Labour senior command is still getting used to the schmoozing and boozing after so long in the wilderness. Elsewhere, I enjoyed a wide-ranging catch-up with the DEFRA Secretary of State on having his hands full with angry farmers before he went off to withstand a politer version from the boss of the NFU. When not listening to Pixie Lott butcher the national anthem with Yank-style warbling, we heard the comfortingly dulcet southern drawl of Trump’s UK ambassadorial pick, Warren Stephens, former CEO of private Arkansas-based investment bank Stephens Inc. He spoke on the shared values between Americans and their British allies, many enduring, others evolving, the pace perhaps not quite matched at times. All in all, a memorable spectacle capped off by a presidential-style fireworks display that one likes to think was also celebrating Britain’s move from last to first in the queue for a US trade deal. British and US flags draped the official residence. On the subject of a US deal, the concession made by Sir Keir to get one was all the talk at various agricultural shows – yes, my public affairs trade brief includes EU farming. Beef hormones? Chlorinated chicken? No. Labour managed to withstand those pressures and instead offered up duty-free access to the UK ethanol market, in turn reliant upon British arable crops. Another tick in the farmers’ fury box after recent inheritance tax sagas. Luckily, neither was on the discussion table when HRH the Prince of Wales visited the ‘Glastonbury’ of regenerative agriculture shows at Groundswell in Herefordshire in July. I was there and, to my surprise, suddenly found myself officially introduced to Prince William. We had a lovely chat and I regaled him with the tale of a grandfather who had served his grandmother, HM Queen Elizabeth II, as a longtime royal correspondent at home and abroad during her Commonwealth Tour. A farming magazine snapped a photo of my royal encounter and ran with the caption: ‘The Queen of Trade meets the future King’. Not sure I would have worn the floral leggings if I had known. Trade talks analysis and intelligence have kept this trade queen advocate on her toes much of the last six months, even on the few days I actually took a holiday out of the Westminster bubble. It was my first break in 18 months, a trip to Rome, where no sooner had the plane landed than the mobile began buzzing incessantly with messages that an agreement in principle with Washington was about to emerge. The next two days were filled with client briefings and media interviews – several from St Peter’s Square just before the new Pope Leo XIV emerged on the balcony. To sit out the wait for the papal smoke, I had located a bar in the Borgo Santo Spirito, a side street off St Peter’s, where the terrace had a few tables from which I could enjoy a glass of wine – when not live down the line to the BBC or other media outlet – and also see the temporary chimney stuck on the roof of the Sistine Chapel without standing out in the square. It turned out William Cash, editor of The Mace, had the same idea, hence how we first met, table to table. Trade deals and tariffs dominate not only this diarist’s professional hours but also much of her social calendar. What the summer party swirl reminded me was that within the bubbles of DC, Westminster and Brussels (not much of a party village compared to SW1), private networks and personal relationships – along with Spads’ and ministers’ mobile numbers – remain a critical form of political currency. You cannot ask for a Parliamentary Under-Secretary’s business card during a Zoom call in the same way you can when squashed up against them in the downstairs Pimm’s and champagne bar in Old Queen Street. The Westminster summer season cuts through the scars...