SATC2 - Crusty's Eureka Moment!

It would appear the nation’s press has gone sex mad with regard to the imminent release of Sex and the City 2, the [it says here] long awaited sequel to Sex and the City 1.

The cast of the film, of course, remains the same; the uber-gorgeous Kim Cattrall, the stunning Kristin Davis, the delicious Cynthia Nixon … and she who will never know the pain of losing her looks, Sarah Jessica Parker (a woman whom Mother Nature has balance beautifully by putting knobbly knees on her legs as well as her face).

Sitting in the Drawing Room and watching the BBC Breakfast interview - with the rather scary Susanna Reid (she with an extreme expression for any occasion) – one noted to oneself the natural elegance of Kim, Kristin and Cynthia yet was slightly put off by the intense, heavy analytical ramblings of Sarah. One took a sip of some chilled Pere Ventura Chu Me had poured for one and it was at that very moment when one had a Eureka moment!

Yes, the more one looked at SJP in her emerald green frock, the more one was convinced one’s discovery was accurate; bony face, small shifty eyes, the spectacles on/off routine to maintain a Superman-Clark-Kentesque anonimity. Furthermore, one has certainly never seen a photograph of them in the same room.

Could one’s suspicions be true? Could Sarah Jessica Parker be Mr. Woody Allen in lippy and designer frock?

One shall of course monitor the situation and report to one’s poppets as soon as investigations are complete.

Anyhoo … the premier has already been held in the capital, with one’s very own oofalicious poppet, Jake Canuso in attendance along with his good friends Louie the-poppet-is-elastic Spence and the sublimely gorgeous Emma Bunton. The crowds turned up in their thousands – as they often do for such events - and there was a cornucopia of national treasures (including one's Jakey) gliding up the red carpet with an air of glitterliciousness about them.

One must admit one shall no doubt sashay down to one’s private cinema here a Crusty Hall to watch the offering at some point. One certainly managed to get through the last one despite the long drawn out marriage-nonmarriage-get-together-split-up-get-back-together-marry carry on between Mr. Big and Woody Parker. It is clear that any relationship that has to endure that amount of nonsense will be destined to fail and result in a lifetime of lying on a psychiatrists couch (psychiatrists couch?!!! Another link … uncanny!)

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

If ever one was in need of the muscular, yet velvety soft, healing hands of Doctor Christian Jessen it would have most certainly been this week.

One was going about one’s daily business - in an elegant fashion (naturally) - on Monday when at 21:32 - and while passing a moment of mediocrity with the vicar playing Connect 4 in the conservatory - one began to feel something a little strange at the back of one’s throat. One thought nothing of it, thinking Chu Me had acquired a little more “knock awf” gin from Robin Gett in the village. Perhaps he had tried to slip it in on the sly for our visitor, so as not to waste the good stuff.

Tuesday came and one’s throat was a tad worse, plus one seemed to have a slight fluidic cascade from one’s nasal passages: One was beginning to get slightly alarmed as this Dame is most definitely not for sniffing.

By Wednesday, the flood gates of … not to put too fine a point on it … nasal residue were well and truly opened. One’s throat felt as rough as Anne Robinson’s heels and temperature-wise, one was as hot as the sight of Jake Canuso in a pair of skimpy, skin-tight, budgie-smugglers, smothered in baby oil and lying back with a red rose gripped between his teeth.

As one sat in one’s private office on the Wednesday morning, attempting to reply to the myriad of agony emails from troubled poppets, Chu Me entered. He was about to put the Baccarat tumbler of medicinal gin on the coaster by one’s diary, when he caught sight of one still adorned in one’s silk, embroidered Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr bathrobe. Unkempt hair (still clinging to a hint of gorgeousness), a face like Margaret Lockwood made up in the style of a teenage Goth and coughing like a docker on 80-a-day made Chu Me whisk away the tumbler and demand one went to bed immediately.

When one saw his little face, saturated with concern, one could not have argued (plus, in fairness, one didn’t have the strength). The rest of the day was spent with complete and utter bed rest. Chu Me would pop in from time to time with a cup of Miso soup, dressed alarmingly in fishing waders, a surgical gown, face mask and marigold gloves. Poppets would be right to imagine the scene as one from Holby City.

One’s pussy, Crotchet, loyal as ever, remained by his mistress’s side throughout, adopting the deportment of the Sphinx at the bottom right hand corner of one’s bed.

One managed to find the strength to use one’s laptopular device briefly and one must say one was pleased one did. The combination of Chu Me’s care, Crotchet’s protection and the abundance of love and concern from one’s Twitterchums allowed one to awake - after a restful nights sleep - refreshed and running at 92.3% of optimum elegance.

Crusty Hall has now been wiped down thoroughly with disinfectant, including the household staff, in an attempt to rid the residence of the any further sniff-inducing germs, so fingers cross, one has seen the last of it.

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

Last night was a warm and balmy night here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall. The excitement – or is that exhaustion – of how long it takes to put a government together had taken its toll. It certainly causes many problems when our Parliamentarians find themselves hung. Even the crude-oilesque, slicky, greasiness of Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was unable to shift the tectonic plates of coalitionism for an alternative or speedier result. Chu Me suggested one have an early night and one agreed it was the best course of action.

After a relaxing bath in rose scented water one staggered one’s way to the bed and flopped elegantly onto Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr’s face (emroided onto one’s quality Egyptian cotton duvet cover). One immediately fell into a deep, deep sleep ... dressed only in a simple diamond necklace and a film of moisturiser over one’s entire epidermal expanse.

Then this morning, one awoke abruptly to the noise of the household staff going about their daily routine, in the dim light of the window covered boudoir, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs exploded on one’s 28 incher giving the full regional roundup of news for the day. Sashaying barefoot through the deep sumptuous shag pile carpet to his velvety tones, one arrived at the heavy curtains keeping the main thrust of Señor Sol’s rays at bay, one reached up, grabbed the delicious fabric and thrust the curtains open.

Looking down, one saw Dribble walking around the paddock and Gardener losing momentary control of his petrol powered lawnmower and crashing into a small tree (Perhaps it may have been prudent to have put on a robe before introducing oneself to the day through clear glass). His front end was clearly not hard enough and suffered some buckling as he banged the wood, but one is quite sure by pulling it off and giving it a good beating in his greenhouse, he will accomplish a smooth finish.

Anyhoo … the news filtered through that Her Majesty had mustered up a new Prime Minister – David Cameron. The one evening one decides on a early night, the nation changes hands; one may never sleep again!

It appears Mr. Cameron and Mr. Tarty-pants Clegg (who has flirted outrageously on both sides of the fence) managed to sit down and reach a compromise to unite as a powerful force indeed.

Though one does not step into the world of politics - especially in Gucci pumps - one hopes the boys can work well together and manage to get our great nation back on its feet again.

Humiliation for Veronica Manntrapp.

Since the opening of the village model agency, it would appear the differences Claudia Shaver and I have let fester over the years, now seem to have been put to rest.

It was Tuesday morning and one had arranged the usual Ladies-Who-Brunch meet at the village coffee shop. Kitty, Fanny and I always like to have a weekly meet to put the world to rights over a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s prize sausages stuffed between Pat Tissery’s buttered baps (one feels strongly that local businesses should always be loyal to their community and use the local fayre).

Anyhoo … Kitty was running late so Fanny – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – and I had ordered our sandwiches and were sipping our coffees when Claudia walked through the door. The bell ring dissipated as she closed the door behind her.

“Dame Crusty!” She said, with an air of surprise in her voice.

“Claudia dear,” One acknowledged, “one trusts the model agency is proving a success?”

“Oh yes, Dame Crusty, things are going great. Only this week, I’ve signed up Veronica Manntrapp. She’s got a lucrative advertising job already with Les Gumbres, the Greengrocer.”

“Splendid, dear!” One said. “Well … one would like to invite you to join us, dear, but one doesn’t want too. We shall catch up again soon.”

Claudia made her way to a table for one in the back of the coffee shop. Turning to the young woman standing by the window and gaining her attention by throwing a small sachet of sweetener at her head one said, “ Could you bring one another pot of coffee, dear, and perhaps a couple of hobnobs?”

“Oh… I don’t work here, I’m just waiting for my daughter.”

“Then you have ample time on your hands, poppet. Two sugars with milk please. Fanny? Another?”

Fanny declined and the rather sour faced woman made her way to the counter. Suddenly, there was a strange vibration against one’s right hooter. It was a text from Kitty advising she would be unable to attend. Her C.P.R. class had turned into chaos after a pair of adolescents had used a little licence in their interpretation of mouth-to-mouth. Thankfully, she managed to stop things before babies were born.

Fanny and I decided to take a gentle stroll back to the Badger’s Snatch, where one had parked the Aston. Getting up from our seats, the sour faced woman returned with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits. “No thank you, dear. One couldn’t manage another thing!”

We were approaching Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery emporium and saw him come out of the Greengrocer shop next door and go into his own – he was taking a leek inside – and one thought no more about one’s encounter with Claudia. It was not until passing the shop window that Fanny nudged one’s arm and pointed.

There stood Veronica Manntrapp doing her advertising campaign. When she saw us, her poor face said it all. She was devastated. Her elegant Marks & Spencer ensemble did not compliment the full length sandwich board she had been contracted to don and her angst had clearly caused her to grip Mr. Gumbres’ onions a little too hard resulting in the skin flaking off. Both he and Veronica had tears in their eyes. Poor Les couldn’t even see his scales and Veronica looked like a young Alice Cooper but with better skin tone. All in all it sort of distracted one from the advertising message regarding the low price on Les’s full length sheathed cucumber. Fanny and I made haste back to the Snatch to lessen Veronica’s humiliation.

Anyhoo … one later found out that the days work had brought £129.52 into the modelling agency and 2 weeks worth of free fresh produce for Veronica herself.

Well, as they always say ... no pain, no gain.