Even my most ardent champion would admit that my nature is sometimes unpredictable. Some think it's a vice - particularly if it's a thinly veiled excuse for being late for an appointment - but I think it's a virtue.

In PR it's good to keep people guessing, never knowing quite where you're coming from. Certainly, during my time at the Palace, it was an invaluable tool in the back-protection armoury; if the courtiers can't predict your next move, they can't thwart it.

But there is one point in the year when I like to shed this mantle and grab custom, tradition and predictability with both hands - and that surrounds the stately rituals of spring and summer: Wimbledon, Henley Royal Regatta, Glyndebourne and The Proms. They are all wonderful parts of the fabric of a British summer (when we get one), and punctuate it like a perfect metronome beat.

There is one particular ritual that I prize hugely as the start of the season and that is the Chelsea Flower Show. It's a remarkable, eccentric, sometimes bizarre, but thoroughly English occasion.

In the last few years, when all things traditional have been sneered at - or fallen victim to political correctness (even the dear old Proms) - Chelsea's popularity seems to grow and grow. Tickets are like gold dust. The business and media worlds turn out in force. And not even torrential rain can provide a damper. Last year, I left there a sodden wreck - not from the champagne - but still loved every minute of it.

After such an assault on the senses, what I usually want is a good supper close by. That's why Como Lario makes the perfect post-flower-show venue. Guy and I first ate there nearly 20 years ago. On that occasion, there was much excitement because

Captain Peacock - a comedy legend in our household - was sitting at the next table.

On the street where it sits, there is nothing to distinguish Como Lario from the outside - its bloom has faded to near invisibility. You could easily pass by without noticing it was there; it's the Alistair Darling of restaurants.

But why advertise when you don't need to? For inside it's a completely different matter. The place starts buzzing from the moment the doors open. Staffed by efficient, ageless waiters with doleful eyes, it's supervised by a patron you sense has seen human nature in all its guises - a worldliness that is reflected in the framed black and white photos.

A young Michael Caine. An eerie Alfred Hitchcock. And several shots of Maria Callas, bursting with all that talent underpinned by neurosis.

I'd taken a philanthropic friend and she sat blinking at the walls with the delight of a lottery winner. Tables are jammed into every available space. We munched on cigarillo-slim bread sticks and olives as fleshy as Marilyn Monroe's lips as we watched the Chelsea mob arrive. There are the usual waferthin doyennes and loafer-shod men in striped shirts, but the wide age range tells you that this is a long-established and favoured venue. It's easy to see why.

The menu makes no concession to fashion - this is food that Italians have been eating for decades.

The philanthropist started with asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and smothered in cheese, which she pronounced a spring symphony, while my carpaccio of wild boar with dried pears tasted incongruously rustic, given our location.

Next I had linguine with clams and mussels, which was the best version of this classic I'd eaten in London for a long time. My friend had veal parcels stuffed with wonderful, gooey Italian cheese, accompanied by deep-fried courgettes. I plucked a few from her bowl and decided they were more delicious than chips.

Partly to soak up the Gavi di Gavi, and partly because leaving after the main course in an Italian restaurant always makes the meal seem unfinished, we decided to order pudding.

The pistachio and chocolate ice cream was so good that I could almost imagine strolling around a sun-baked piazza with a cornet in my hand. It was just like being home in Italy - and that's what Como Lario captures so beautifully. Just like a border of sweet peas, this is a place worth staking out.