High life
Temporary hitch
Taki
Unlike my father, who I assume slept with all his private secretaries, I have yet to bed down any of mine. Not for lack of try- ing, however. Aris, my girl Friday in the Big Olive, is extremely loyal and dense an ideal combination, it would seem, for hanky-panky. The trouble is she went off and got married just as I was about to pounce, Worse, she asked me to be best man in order to disarm me. Alas, it never stopped my old man — being best man, that is.
Then a funny thing happened. Every time I'd come to Athens her husband would stop making love to her. It was as if he knew what I was thinking and was pun- ishing her for it. I suggested they go see a shrink, which they did. Typically he found nothing wrong, except that they were a lit- tle slow on the uptake, and he only charged them half-price. Aris is still very much in my employ, and she tells me her hubby has once again taken up his conjugal duties.
My girl here in London, Fiona Garland, is a truly hopeless case where sex is con- cerned. In fact she's the type to streak fully clothed through a nudist colony. Fiona is very pretty, very shy, very much a lady. And very much a blusher. Especially when she asks me if there's anything more she can do and I point towards my bed. She was seated next to our ex-benevolent proprietor Algy Cluff during my collapse of communism ball and in the course of conversation he asked her what she did. When she told him she was my personal assistant he laughed out loud and said, `So likely'.
My Big Bagel secretary, Helen Strezzou, is the only one I have not dared make a Pass at, first because she has a fierce- looking mustachioed husband and secondly because, like most true Greek ladies, she has quite a hairy upper lip herself. I inher- ited her from daddy so I have to show respect.
And speaking of secretaries and sex, last week I dined with a delightful couple by the name of Nicky and Kim Hurd. He is the son of the Foreign Minister, and for a joke I said to Nicky that his father was the only MP not to be involved in a sex scandal with his secretary. 'Of course not: he mar- ried her,' came the answer.
Needless to say, the Paddy Ashdown brouhaha I find ridiculous. In my country, with the exception of yours truly, everyone worth his salt sleeps with his secretary. Ditto the rest of Europe. In fact in Belgium there are grounds for fair dismissal if a girl says no. Now that is what I call urbanity.
Mind you, not for long. The feminists are at the gates and even Mozart and Da Ponte are not safe. Last Monday I watched Mozart's greatest opera on the telly and became Orlando Furioso. Why did so tal- ented a man as Johannes Schaaf treat Don Giovanni so shabbily? I don't know what the Queen thought about it, but this was more Don Corleone than Don Giovanni. I guess a malignant portrayal of the great lover is politically correct nowadays. Just because Magic Johnson can do it doesn't mean an upper-class white can. They even managed to portray the Don as a coward — a dastardly and desperate attempt to discredit my hero. (How can a man be a coward and still sleep with 91 women in Turkey?) May Schaaf end up on a desert island with Germaine Greer and Andrea Dworkin for 1,003 nights.
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