I found it most unwise of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to take a second honeymoon in the Maldives minus the minor and after the Middleton clan had just got back from Musitque. Most people in Britain couldn’t afford a first honeymoon in the Maldives and – more to the point – I have not been on holidays for two years.
Mustique is a particularly divisive choice given that it is a haven for the ridiculously rich and the former stomping ground of Princess Margaret who frittered the latter half of her life away swimming in gin and basking like a salamander in the sun. Neither was I best pleased to hear that the Duchess has decided to redecorate Apartment 1A in Kensington Palace because she’d made the wrong paint colour choices. It smacks of Marie Antoinette and is terribly obnoxious in the current climate.
Many, many people in Britain are becoming increasingly angry that the bad guys seem to be winning while we are fleeced with high taxes, high food prices and the rapidly receding chances of ever owning property. We’re fed up of our politicians: pig-in-trough Cameron, fuckwitted Ed Milliband and venal Nick Clegg. Mr Farage would have half a chance if his MPs weren’t like England’s answer to the Marx Brothers.
Don’t even get me started on the PIE scandal and links to senior Labour politicians and a high court judge…and I bet that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Bankers bonuses are still taking the Mick and decent, hard working people are being hammered by the Revenue, the monstrous energy firms and our government. One feels tempted to say ‘to hell with it’ and leave the UK altogether.
What with planes falling out of the sky, the world teetering on the brink of war and the second in line to the British throne frolicking in the Maldives wearing his Speedo tighty whities I think we’re all justified to feel a little cranky and very nervous for the prognosis of the near future. I always find comfort in looking back when the future is so uncertain hence the photograph of my first trip to London.
Weren’t the family Sherwood bobby dazzlers in the 1970s? Isn’t it interesting that one of my first memories of London was being taken to the Tower and seeing the Crown Jewels. Then I wanted to be the Crown Jeweller. Now I know him and spent a good seven years at Royal Ascot talking about Her Majesty’s personal collection of diamonds. What’s bred in the bone and all that…
Speaking of the Tower of London, I suppose that visit began my life long love affair with Anne Boleyn who is buried beneath the altar of St Peter Ad Vincula (St Peter in Chains) within the precinct of the Tower. I’ve just bought the most marvellous new hardback called In The Footsteps of Anne Boleyn written by Sarah Morris and Nathalie Grueninger. The book is a guide to all the locations that Anne Boleyn visited in her relatively brief life and I am absolutely devouring it: super knowledge, super writing and that Holy Grail for Anne fans: new knowledge.
Now for the bad news. I awoke a couple of days ago thinking I was in a scene from The Godfather before realising that I had fallen asleep with a glass of red wine in my hand some of which had splashed on to the keyboard of my MacBook Air. I could have wept. Long story short I went down to the Apple store in Covent Garden first thing this morning, got straight in for a consultation and – glorious tintanabulations – all that was needed was a minor repair.
The charming chap from Vancouver who served me said he saw 22 people every day with water damage to a laptop and mine was only the second this year that escaped unharmed. Quite frankly I think I’m due a bit of luck after the year I’ve had so far. Vancouver said he wanted to guess my profession and surmised I was the owner of a luxury travel agent. Can’t make it up can you? Still, might be an interesting new career.
Speaking of careering from career to career, it is time for the old lag to get back to work after the recent ‘troubles’. I’ve got a meeting with my lovely publisher at Thames & Hudson this week and we’re hopefully going to sign off the new book. Can’t wait to get started. Still, who’d have thought I would have done half of the things I’ve been asked to do in my life.
A couple of years ago I worked for the Wicked Witch of the West End with Mommie Dearest, Ireland’s answer to Luna Lovegood and the Fembot. I think I did a good job but for the wrong people. Still, you live and learn. I think everything is leading to my doing what I love more than anything else in this world: writing in solitude. I rather like my own company. I also like kicking my heels up with the Sherwood Massive but being alone is a panacea for all anxiety.
By the way, do you get the feeling that Max Clifford is being stitched-up with the sexual abuse case just as he has doubtless stitched many people up in his time? I don’t think a sixty-year old woman can finally point the finger when the alleged assault was when she was fourteen. What could the motive be other than compensation? Post Jimmy the kiddy fiddler, there isn’t a white male in the public eye who isn’t vulnerable to a witch hunt. Doubtless some might be guilty but none so far.
Anyway, it is Silk tonight and I have a bottle of Prosecco so all is well with my world. Village People shot says it all really.