I was asked, in January, if I would have dinner with
the winner of a raffle in aid of the Conservative party. I gladly agreed. Months later Percy and I turned up a polite 20 minutes late at the Drones Club, only to find a nearempty room. The only people there were two Labour MPs who were so delighted that the Tories hadn’t shown that they jokingly offered to give us dinner. An hour later the raffle winner arrived with some tipsy mates and I found myself the only woman at a table of ten. Thank goodness Percy was there for moral support. I asked Mr Lucky why he was an hour late and he replied, smirking, ‘Well, we knew you’d be late.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘’Cos you’re an actress, aintcha?’ Seventeen bottles of wine later, which in all probability necessitated a large overdraft at his bank, conversation began to get more than spirited until in vino veritas one wag remarked, ‘I knew you would look good but didn’t realise your husband would be so f—– handsome.’ ‘Oh dear,’ I trilled in my best glacially icy, Mary Whitehouse voice, ‘Darling, they’re using the f-word, it’s time we left,’ and fighting the temptation to order another vodka martini, to either drink or throw over him, we sailed out. I vowed never to be raffled again.
I’ll never complain about BT again. After eight days of our French phone, fax and email lines being disconnected because of a massive storm in St Tropez, we were at the end of our tethers. I tried to be calm, muttering ‘C’est la vie!’ with a Gallic shrug when the lines first died on Wednesday night. But by the following Wednesday it seemed that no amount of cajoling or persuasion was able to budge the bloody bureaucratic French telecommunications operatives. Even telling them we have my son’s year-old baby in the house didn’t cut any ice. Some friends who were supposed to visit on Saturday became so worried when they couldn’t reach us that they called the local gendarmerie, who arrived on Sunday. They were charm personified, spoke perfect English and even called France Télécom themselves, to absolutely no avail. Another concerned friend sent her butler to us. He likewise called France Télécom, who finally, grudgingly, said they knew about the problem and would ‘try and deal with it by Tuesday night’. Tuesday? That was almost two weeks since everything stopped working. Quelle horreur! On the bright side, my husband didn’t receive stacks of scummy emails and the house was free of jangling phones and faxes, except for our mobiles, on which, when people finally got through, they sounded quite cross that they’d had such trouble reaching us.
Global warming seems to have affected this region too. It used to be that summer on the Côte d’Azure was one idyllic day after another of sunshine and light breezes. Alas, no more. There have been many days of storms and rain, and more mistrals than you can shake a stick at. The only perfect climate where you can always be sure of wonderful weather in season (November to March) is Acapulco. They claim 300 days of sunshine a year. I’ve been there dozens of times and have had a 99 per cent success rate with fabulous cloudless days. Sadly, owing to Mexican bureaucracy, there are no longer any direct flights from either New York or LA, which means that this paradise is suffering from a lack of overseas tourists. Mexican residents can drive from Mexico City in just over five hours, and well worth the trip it is. I can’t wait to go back.
The stench of frying garlic on a recent British Airways flight to Nice made our stomachs, already sensitive from a night on the tiles, start churning. Apparently it was a ‘special meal’ — chicken tiki tacky or something. As one who is supremely allergic to all shellfish, I find it extraordinary that the brains behind this ‘special’ meal are seemingly unable to take the special needs of allergy sufferers into consideration. It appears to be more important to have ethnic, vegetarian, non-dairy, low-sodium, lowfat, kosher, Muslim, kaballah, Catholic and Presbyterian meals into which they can put shrimp, crab or lobster with impunity. Bring me my glass of wine, for God’s sake. At least they haven’t banned drinking on the grounds that it could offend the teetotallers.
It’s frivolous and rather pathetic, but any politician running for office today has to be perfectly groomed, photogenic and look a bit like Hugh Grant. (George Bush bucks this trend by looking like Gene Hackman crossed with Ben Stiller at his most gormless.) However, camera-ready good looks are what the media demand today, otherwise why didn’t William Hague make the cut? I don’t think it was because of his youth, but because of his lack of hair. It isn’t so much Kenneth Clarke’s age that’s against him — after all, 60 is supposed to be the new 40 — but to attract a celebrity-conscious electorate he should lose the flab, clip the nose hair and ditch the cigars. Tony the Toned is sleek, tanned and buff and, next to the ‘Big Beast’, as the tabloids have unkindly nicknamed Ken Clarke, he looks ready for the paparazzi all the time, especially on the beach. As for Gordon Brown, if he lost a couple of stone he could possibly have a George Clooneyish look which would certainly be a big asset in attracting voters.
In the wake of America’s terrible tragedy, the Fema farce makes my blood boil. It’s beyond my comprehension how these desperately poor people have been allowed to suffer and die when the feeble Federal Emergency Management Agency people who were supposed to help them seemed unable to get their act together. Nor do I have any faith in the instant new charities that have sprung up for Katrina’s victims. One is backed by ‘A’-list celebrities like Jack Nicholson and Julia Roberts, who man the phones asking for donations in return for singing a song to the caller over the phone. (Lucky they’re not using France Télécom.) If, as is the case with the Christian Children’s Fund, I was positive the money would go to a specific child or family, I would have no hesitation in sending a cheque, but I fear a repeat of the 9/11 situation, where most of the money simply didn’t get to the people. Meanwhile the utter stupidity and lack of co-ordination are so mind-boggling that I dread to think what will happen when the next disaster strikes.
Shakespeare was on the money when he said, ‘Let’s kill all the lawyers... ’ In my case, you can add accountants to that, since I’ve never had a good one yet. The greed and unscrupulousness of most of the lawyers and accountants I deal with make Mr Micawber look like a piker. ‘Oh, no, Joan, trust me, this isn’t going to cost you too much... ’. Ha! — it’s beyond contempt. In any event I could never trust anyone who says, ‘Trust me.’ Thank God my children chose careers as artists and writers rather than entering the sinister and often corrupt legal and financial world.
Previous page
