It's not going to be at least spring 2013. 
I keep myself going by imagining the evaporation of the Brooks' social life.
A mantelpiece bare of Stiffies;
No more stirrup cups at Hunt meets at Chipping-cum-Sod-You;
A shared Waitrose turkey crown facing each other across a yawning table on Xmas day;
Two crackers (jokes not-so-carefully vetted by the Czech cleaning lady);
No Boxing Day hunting aboard a Met Police nag named Mind How You Go;
No New Year invitation to Chequers with Dave and Sam;
No New Year cruising aboard one of the many Murdoch yachts;
The one upside to being persona non-grata at New Year holidays in the Caribbean or the slopes of Megeve is that Rebekah will save a fortune on SPF 60.
And she can bond with that baby she bought.