DIARY
ULRIKA JONSSON The 20th of May saw the long-awaited, much talked about, highly competitive, verti- cally social-climbing, potentially embarrass- ing and unashamedly fund-raising annual summer ball at my son's school. Having never before had the courage to enter this social arena, nor the desire to spend the evening discussing parking difficulties at pick-up times or the academic potential of my six-year-old, I decided to make a con- scious effort. I invested in £80 for two tickets and managed to secure my place, and that of my 'unknown' partner, on a lively, contempo- rary table. Choice of attire was limited as I am currently in the only club to which the monthly subscription is varicose veins, swollen breasts and piles; and after a couple of glasses of champagne I began to wonder what I was doing in a venue full of my moth- er's friends. My fears grew when we were told that we might find ourselves in deten- tion should we not listen to the headmaster's speech. I immediately voiced my preference for the cane. This provoked much frowning. I then wolfed my starter and those of my two neighbours. When the (bleak) main course arrived, I suggested ordering a pizza. This was met with giggling and exclamations of `You can't possibly'. As the others continued to intoxicate themselves and sneak fags out of their little handbags, I saw no alternative but to get on the mobile and order a large pepperoni and two portions of profiteroles. Twenty minutes later, as promised, a Domi- no's Pizza representative walked into the marquee, heading towards table 23, blushing furiously. A blanket of silence fell upon the entire marquee, one of disbelief and fear; that I had somehow put the academic future of everyone's children in jeopardy. This soon gave way to hunger on our table, and envy on everyone else's. I am not sure if the head- master witnessed this irregular behaviour, but I have seen the interior of enough head- masters' offices to know that one more would make little difference.
Iwas invited to a dinner in honour of Dame Elizabeth Taylor last week; thereby notching up two evenings out in as many months. I wasn't sure what to make .of such an invitation, being neither a friend of the Dame, nor an avid fan of her acting career — bar, of course, National Velvet, which is a must for every horse-mad young girl. Conse- quently, when asked by the hounds outside what I thought Dame Elizabeth's contribu- tion had been, I couldn't remember her inventing anything, exploring anything (apart from marriage eight times), or build- ing anything (apart from large glass cases to house her diamonds); so I panicked and turned to my agent, as one does. She whis- pered something several times, and I promptly replied, 'Violent eyes'. The men looked blankly at me and my agent rushed me away. Dame Elizabeth eventually walked in, rather short, with high hair, draped in diamonds and male escorts and, after a short dedication to the films she had made, I suddenly realised that I had seen virtually every one of them and enjoyed them all. She made it to the podium, thanked us all for inviting her, then retired, after a mere 30 minutes' attendance, to her hotel suite. The smiles on the faces of those who had paid a grand a ticket left the room with her. I, how- ever, had discovered a new heroine.
Gordon Brown, a good friend of mine (or at least he was when I interviewed him two years ago), has let me down. His inter- ference last week into Oxford's rejection of Laura Spence is way out of line. What he is trying to achieve is beyond me and, I sus- pect, much of the nation. Let me fill you in. My 18-year-old half-brother, Kristian, has spent the last five years studying his balls off at. Eton. His father, my stepfather, is from a working-class family in Lancashire, and Kristian has done good. Very good. He has nine A-starred and two grade A GCSEs, one grade B at NO level, and a prediction of three As at A level. But his first choice, Oxford, rejected him after his interview and consequently four other universities rejected him without interview because Oxford was his first choice. What conclusion do we draw from this, Mr Brown? Well, in my parents' household there is a very strong feeling that Kristian's rejection is based purely on preju- dice against his privileged education, a pre- judice which has already been encouraged by `Next we'll have some musical chairs to build up aggression.' this government. Thanks to Gordon Brown's meddling, my baby brother, with his high intellect, fantastically well-adjusted person- ality and sense of humour, will now find it nigh impossible to get a place at Oxford if he chooses to reapply. Will Mr Brown be equally willing to take on Kristian Brodie's case? Or will he trust the dons at Oxford to award the places to those students who, in their opinion, are best suited to that place? The problem with prejudice is that it works both ways and the government has opened the floodgates with this one. You will be hearing from me, Gordon, and this time it won't be friendly.
Breasts are wonderful things, I think you will agree. But while most of the world is obsessed with the enlargement of these glands, I have for a good number of year been considering the reverse. For those of you who have no idea about breast sizes and merely measure them by the handful, it is the cup measurement which indicates the size of the breasts, and not the circurrifer: ence of your chest. Thirty-two inches would indicate a small, slight body; the letter that follows better indicates either one handful or two. 'A' is obviously very small (A for amoeba); so the alphabet progresses in sizes — B for better, etc., until you get to my Pfc.:, sent, antenatal size which is double ,1 (apparently, according to Vic Reeves, t1115 stands for f—ing fantastic). Not for me' however. My bras are the size of hammocks and about as sexy; I suffer constant neck and back-ache, and prior to my current cod' dition had to be literally bandaged 1113 ia week before my period came. I was serious' Y considering the op, until I read an arucic about it. Well, it seems that nowadays we, can give people new faces, make lips out 01 arse tissue and even grow human ears °rie rats, but we cannot for the life of us retn°ve fat from breasts in a respectable way.. „ cannot, apparently, make a small wow and suck out some fat with liposuction, ast we do with legs. No, the nipple has to be etit out and removed, and then the fat cut °up' One surgeon likened it to slicing watetinee on. Lovely thought. When the nipples sown back on, they often don't survive'To are just replaced with scar tissue. If they 'ail however, the chances are you will lose sensation in them, presumably Inca-,,i g te even a red-hot poker wouldn't stimuia you. Occasionally, you can be left with asY11;,, metrical breasts. Scarring is always llice,1 and on a friend of mine it looked as till; the surgeon had thrown on the nipples Joie somewhat haphazard fashion. So, for time being, until I have had all the cht,dre;e intend to, I will continue to stand 111 shower and fail to see my feet, and hoPe an pray for some major scientific advances.
Previous page
