You are probably wondering what is my finest piece of writing about diplomatic life. I ask myself that question.

The answer is here. A description for DIPLOMAT magazine of the astonishing sub-culture of Diplomatic Barnacles, those primitive life-forms that cling tenaciously to the local Diplomatic Corps and can never be scraped off:

READERS OF DIPLOMAT perhaps give all too little thought to the amazing life of the barnacle, the small shellfish that cling tight to the bottom of ships.

It’s well known that the barnacle compensates for its lack of mobility – once it is clinging to a ship – by being prodigiously well-endowed in the mating department.

What is much less well known is how barnacles attach themselves to ships in the first place. This is one of nature’s miracles. Barnacles have special echo-sensing membranes which detect ships from miles away. As a ship approaches the barnacles detach themselves from the rocks on the ocean bed below. Using unique internal sacs which extract oxygen from the water and turn it into compressed air, they swarm upwards in huge flocks and finally flip themselves round to lock onto the ship’s underside. This prodigious feat almost always happens at night, so it has never been captured on film.

The point about barnacles is that once they are locked on to the bottom of ships in vast numbers they slow down the vessel and are impossible to remove without a tedious dry-dock scraping operation. As with ships, so with the Diplomatic Corps. Each capital city has its own serene group of ambassadors. And each serene group of ambassadors has its barnacles, people who attach themselves to the Corps and intend to stay firmly attached.

New ambassadors in town are especially vulnerable. After presenting credentials you arrive at one of your first national day receptions. Scarcely are you armed with your first drink before an Unctuous Barnacle tracks you down. ‘Your Excellency, welcome to Transylvania. My name is Sasha Limpit. Allow me to present my card and the DVD of my latest exhibition which opens next week – I do hope you be able to join us!’

Having no idea who this fellow is, you politely accept the card and DVD, and are thereby well and truly barnacled. Mr and Mrs Limpit are now your best friends. They pester you for invitations to your own receptions, and more often than not you will promise to invite them just to get some peace. Now duly reaffirmed as prestigious guests at prestigious dramatic occasions, the Barnacle is poised to pounce on the next sucker who comes to town

 And introducing the Great-Grandmother of All Barnacles … Countess Wolcheek!

At a conference for senior European lawyers, I was startled to see her approach me and introduce one of England’s top judges. We went off for tea. Countless Wolcheek disappeared to powder her ample nose. I asked the judge how he came to know her. ‘How do I escape from this frightful woman?’ he moaned wildly. ‘I’d never met her before. But she attached herself to me yesterday and now I can’t shake her off!’

Then came another National Day, when a Scandinavian ambassador rounded on Countless Wolcheek in front of other guests, informing her in the clearest possible terms that if she gate-crashed any of his events ever again she would be thrown down the stairs. It turned out that not only had she arrived uninvited at his reception for a visiting member of his country’s Royal Family – she had elbowed other guests out of the way to get to the front of the presentation line.

Intrigued by the ubiquity of this phenomenon, I started to ask around. Who else had had dealings with remarkable Countess Wolcheek? The stories poured out...

In fact, publication of this very article led to several new confirmed sightings from well-placed readers of the legendary Countess here in London, including one involving her being chased down the street by police following her attempt to enter a Royal event. Maybe we should set up a website for all further sightings?

Read the whole thing. But write your will first, in case you die laughing.