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I’m Late, I’m Late, For A Very Important Date

13 Nov

Alice Wintergarden read me the riot act this morning, chiding me for arriving late to a drinks party she held last evening.

First off, yes, I was late last night, but at least I wasn’t wearing an inappropriately low neckline on an exceedingly unattractive blouse. Perhaps we should all look a bit closer to home for party faux pas before we start judging me, dear Alice.

Secondly, I did not come late to the party to be “fashionable.” Ignoring arrival guidelines is not a game I play. Unfortunately, a rather dramatic occurrence took place just as I was heading out to the car (the specifics of which I am afraid for both legal and moral reasons I cannot detail to any outside parties at the moment), and I was forced to immediately deal with this crisis. If anything, I’d have thought Alice would have been thanking me for giving her the gift of my presence at all, as god knows (and several other guests testified) that it was a dreadfully tired event before I showed up. But some people are just like that.

As we are nearing the holiday season, no doubt all of our calendars will soon be filling up with invites to parties and requests from the headmaster of the local boys’ school to dress as Mrs Claus (for the school’s Christmas pageant, I presume). Here are a few tips to help get you through this busy time:

  • It is important to be prompt for any engagement, for good manners are the backbone of any social occasion. But do keep this suggestion in perspective.
  • Take a gift, even if your hosts request no gifts. In fact, especially if they request no gifts. They only do this to look humble or “environmentally conscious,” but the cold, hard truth is that everyone likes prezzies, no matter how frivolous, wasteful or damaging to Mother Earth they may be. Hosts should be forced to acknowledge this fact.
  • Never be the first or last to leave the party.
  • Mingle with as many different people as you can tolerate but never ever allow yourself to be photographed with strangers. If you do, you can guarantee said photograph will be stuck into Round Robin letters and the thought of that is so upsetting that it still turns my stomach eight years later.
  • If more than two dozen ex-lovers are also at the party, keep your stay to under thirty minutes.

Finally, please let me advise that if you are the one hosting the get-together, it’s important to remember two things: be grateful I came in the first place and don’t dress like a whore.

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Breaking News: Reports of My Arrest Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

31 Oct

As one of the key messages of Saturday’s Rally to Restore Sanity was about the press’s fear mongering, I thought I would clarify any mis-reporting that is happening in the UK regarding my arrest at the border. I was not charged with sex trafficking; the police just had a few questions about the nature of my relationship with Christopher and once I was given the chance to provide answers, I was allowed to continue my trip without incident. While I appreciate the immediate establishment of the “Free Agatha” fan page on Facebook, it is no longer necessary (though Alice Wintergarden is staying at my home and able to sign for any gift packages or flower bouquets if you still feel compelled to show some type of support).

 

Additionally, if you happened to catch me when I showed up on the Jumbotron, can I please clarify that it was a banana that I was eating. My high level of decorum and the fact that the police were “keeping an eye on me” mean that this is the only reasonable explanation for my rather unflattering pose.

I shall post more on my experience of the Rally shortly, as soon as I have regained feeling in my wrists (police handcuffs unfortunately are not covered in pink fur like normal restraints and are therefore nowhere near as comfortable).

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The Importance of Family (Royal or Otherwise)

21 Nov

As the days grow shorter and we all spend more of our time shrouded in darkness, we are inevitably drawn to periods of somber reflection. Tonight, over tea, Christopher and I were both reflecting on how my life might be different if I were engaged to Prince William. (This may seem a rather far-fetched reflection, but please keep in mind that my reputation precedes me in all levels of the British population). Christopher suggested that it was unlikely William would take me as a bride, given the whole Mrs Simpson debacle. However, I explained to him that it was more her thrice married status which caused the commotion, and I, having never married, would not sound that alarm (though clearly today’s monarchy takes a slightly different view of divorce anyway). He was also concerned that, were I to marry our future king, I may no longer have a place in my heart for him, but I assured Christopher that were William and I to wed, I would insist on moving Christopher in with us. There undoubtedly would be an opening for a footman of some sort, and if there weren’t, I would surely make one.

I, on the other hand, could see nothing but good to come from a possible marriage to Prince William. Though I am not particularly keen on pomp, I trust that my adaptability would allow me to partake in whatever useless luxuries I needed to be a part of. I confess I’d be more than enthusiastic about going to polo matches, attending galas, waving to the minions, and waking up next to a naked nubile body every morning. I would even tolerate the hunting if it meant I could watch him take a shower.  But I think the thing I would like most about entering into the bonds of matrimony with young William is the sense of being part of a family.

As readers know, I do have some family. I often speak of my cherished grandmother. I, of course, do have parents, though our relationship is not as close as I’d like it to be due to the 3517 miles and years of emotional abuse that lie between us. Alas, I was not blessed with any siblings (worth mentioning) and therefore I often feel that I’ve missed out on the sense of family that our Royals so lovingly exude.  I often see photos of Wills and Harry clowning around or embracing, and I think that I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of that princely sandwich.

Just this weekend, I bumped into my dear friend Alice Wintergarden at the local Christmas sale in the Village Hall. She and her sister, a woman whose loud and obnoxious tone unfortunately often conceals her lovely nature, were selling cakes and second hand books. Although I was hardly twenty feet away signing autographs, neither Alice nor her sister attempted to speak to me. I can only assume this was due to the bonds of sorority that I know nothing of or possibly the incredibly long queue of admirers at my table. Oh, having a sister must be such a wonderful experience to make a friend betray another like that!

Given my parents’ advanced age, it seems that unlikely that they will issue forth a sibling for me. Marrying Prince William may in fact be my only chance, however slim (or indeed fat), of gaining that real sense of family. I am more than envious of the woman he ultimately chooses. For in addition to the fame, palaces, gorgeous shag, and jewels out the wazoo she is going to get, she will be welcomed into an accepting, loyal and devoted family. This treasure, I can only imagine, would make any woman feel like a princess.

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The Truth About the Truth

26 Sep

I’ve been thinking a lot about honesty recently. This may in part be due to last week’s media coverage of the film The Invention of Lying. The picture was written and directed by Ricky Gervais, a multi-talented, incredibly talented and cleverly funny person. Gervais is a real English gem though oddly he is both adored and loathed by his countrymen; I see a lot of similarities between him and myself, except of course that all Englishmen adore me.

The film takes place in a world where no one can tell a lie. The characters speak the absolute truth at all times. It makes one wonder, is that sort of honesty desirable? Of course, we must have some sort of moral code, otherwise we would end up like monkeys in a monkey cage, although I do believe even monkeys have a moral code to keep them ending up like vultures in a vulture cage. But absolute honesty at all times? I don’t think so.

Now before you get your knickers in a twist, let me offer up some examples to clarify my position. Let’s say you have recently got married and your new husband asks you about his sexual prowess, compared to that of your previous lovers. Would it be morally right to humiliate the man by acknowledging the disappointment you felt on your honeymoon when you realised that you would never again get it like you got it that night with the tennis instructor at the La Manga Club during your Spanish holiday in 2006? Oh, the memories! Does lying seem so wrong in this situation? What about if your niece asks you if you think her mummy is the prettiest woman on Earth, when clearly your sister’s unattractiveness is what caused her to delay getting married and pregnant until she was well into her forties and desperate enough to accept the first man who would have her and also provides the genetic reason for the fact that your niece, too, will surely spend the majority of her adulthood a lonely spinster? Should you break this little girl’s heart with the truth?

Ultimately what it boils down to is this: lying is not a bad thing. Deep down, we all know that it’s dishonesty that keeps most of our relationships happy and healthy. Rarely does anyone need to really know the truth. That policeman didn’t need to know that you have a history of false accusations, just like my doctor didn’t need to know that the painkillers were actually intended for a use other than the one specified on the label. Why complicate matters with some pie-in-the-sky notion that sincerity is an admirable quality?

Gervais’ character in the film stops telling the truth. He also gets Jennifer Garner to sleep with him. Now tell me that’s not testament to the power of a lie.

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It’s Not Just Britain that is Broken

14 Aug

It is no wonder the world is in the state it is in. I shall stop using toilet tissue entirely if this kind of marketing continues.

Frightful.

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In Praise of Gloves

27 May

As the economy seems to have everyone in quite a smiff, I’ve decided that perhaps I could contribute to the world’s misery by reminding you of the little things in life which are still lovely. I myself have had the good fortune of the sensible financial advice of my dear auntie Penelope and have secured my modest wealth in jam jars in a dry, quiet cupboard so I am not feeling what the newsreaders insist on calling the “credit crunch.” (Cleverly these jam jars are not in my own cupboard; therefore if they go missing as a result of a burglary, any danger and responsibility will fall on my dear friend, Alice Wintergarden.) However, I am appreciative of the fact that even people of good standing may find themselves in a bit of an economic pickle and therefore feel that they may be cheered by hearing something nice from me.

My first object of praise will therefore be the humble but essential glove (and by glove, I, of course, mean pair of gloves unless one has had an incident with a crocodile in Peru as did Auntie Penelope’s dearest old friend, Count Theodore L Theodore). I firmly believe that hands should be covered by gloves always, even more so in today’s economic climate. The gloved hand—-whether it be signing a loan application or extending a greeting to a tribesman—-is a symbol of respect. It says, metaphorically of course, that you are meeting a person who is, at the very least, an equal, and, if we’re honest (though it need not be acknowledged aloud), more likely just that little touch better than you. Therefore, when you shake a gloved hand, do so with reverence and ideally a dainty curtsy.

As I am a woman who lives by her word, I am wearing gloves even as I dictate this missive to my hired man, Christopher, who does both my bush trimming and typing for an incredibly reasonable cost. My gloves are soft white with two petite buttons at the wrist (gloves which extend up the forearm are offensive to both one’s eye and one’s moral standing). My gloves tell you, my readers, that I am a woman who knows who she is and why her hands should not be seen. I cannot think of two more important  aspects of self-knowledge.

So while the newspapers continue to upset the apple cart with their disastrous foreboding, let us all sit back and feel proud and proper in our gloves. The news shall not dictate to us how we live our lives. Nor will it leave black marks on our fingers.

Chins up, dear ones!

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Everyone Needs an Algonquin

17 May

When I was breakfast editor for Rupert Stanley Quim’s magazine Specific Monthly, I often found myself eating lunch at the famous (or infamous) Cafe Grandmother. It was not unusual for the likes of detective writer Derek Pinpoint, novelist Ginger Readers and her cronies and other notable writers to join me. I recall us gossiping, eating blueberry pancakes or BLT sandwiches and generally just having a smashing time. Reminiscing about these years brings to mind another group of quick wits who gathered at a round table, throwing their coins down, telling secrets, cracking jokes and sleeping with each others’ mates. I am thinking, of course, of my mother’s bridge group in Trenton, New Jersey.

These ladies would get together each Tuesday afternoon, most often at our house since we seemed to have, based on the women’s weekly comments, the nicest drapes. In retrospect I suppose it was our ever full liquor cabinet that really drew them in, but I wouldn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings. If she had them. But I remember as a youngster sitting at the top of the stairs, peering down at the lacquered hairstyles, the crossed legs and the cigarettes burning down to ash. I can hear now in my mind’s eye the laughing which grew in both intensity and decibels as the day wore on (and the liquor bottles drained). I remember hearing the voices, hushed but excited, sharing secrets and insults (the words “embezzling” and “stupid bastard,” to this day, take me back to those innocent afternoons) and I so wanted to grow up to be one of those ladies. (I had hoped by the time I was old enough to lacquer my hair, another one of the ladies would have bought nicer drapes so we could meet elsewhere, thereby excluding my mother.) But unfortunately I found that, as I grew older, this sort of bonding had become a thing of the past. If I had not been blessed with such talent as a writer, I may never have even experienced those few years eating with Derek, Ginger and friends. The days of intimates getting together to enjoy the misery of others just simply don’t exist in our work-a-day world.

Which leads me to my point that young people today just seem too isolated. My advice to them, and to you, reader, if you find yourself lonely or disconnected, is to get married. Too many young people stay single, “trying to find themselves.” That’s not what life is about. Life is about alcoholic laughs and betrayal and embezzlement. The burdens of a spouse lead directly to that kind of happiness. Just ask my mother or her friend, Shirley. They’re both listed, but don’t bother calling on a Tuesday afternoon. Or just call my parents’ house then, but hang up when she answers. That really gets her goat.

Best of luck, little ones!

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