After a dreadful bout of rain, the morning was bright and sunny and one felt the need to get out into the open air. One looked down from one’s bedroom window and saw the horses in the stable. One’s favourite stood proud with the sunshine on his face, as he looked across the Gusset estate. A morning ride! A splendid idea!
One mounted Dribble in one’s riding finery and raced off across the grounds towards the River Pees Burn. The feeling of the fresh air whooshing past one’s face as one went was exquisite and Dribble was in his element.
Approaching the cinder track by the side of the river, one came across the village rowing team. They were out on a team practice and looked magnificent suspended in their Lycra bodysuits. Rowing has been a blessing for the entire team, the majority of who used to pass their time on the village green drinking bottles of peach Schnapps and being generally disagreeable. That is, all apart from one; Robin Gett.
Robin was notorious in the surrounding area for petty theft. One night, one stumbled across him trying to grab one’s jugs in the hallway . It was this incident that prompted one to suggest rehabilitation on the rowing team and since joining, he has become a changed character and a totally delightful young man.
“Morning, Dame Crusty!” They all shouted.
“Good morning, boys!” one replied as Dribble nodded his head and stamped his right front hoof.
“We’re going to try for a personal best, but Sammy was on the hoy last night, so we’re not hopeful.”
“It’s all a matter of focus, poppets! If you think you can achieve it, then so shall it be.”
Robin shouted from the middle of the boat, “Will you time us Dame Crusty?”
“Of course, poppet!” One shouted back.
To start them off one took the whip from the side of the saddle, drew it back and flicked it forward quickly; one’s crack pierced the air. At the very same moment, one pressed the start button on the chronograph one has on one’s Bvlgari watch. They huffed, puffed and heaved as they put all their strength into the acceleration of their canoe. The bow of the craft sliced through the glistening ripples of the Pees Burn; each stroke of the oars leaving a trail of tiny whirlpools of power in their wake.
Once up to speed, one squeezed Dribble between one’s thighs and we, too, were off. Galloping along side them on the cinder track, one could see they were putting everything they had into it; their faces contorting with the effort and the pain running through their muscles. Dribble and I raced past the finish marker and when one turned to see the crew cross it too, the button on the stopwatch was pressed once more.
Each of them let out an enormous puff to allow their lungs to draw in a gulp of fresh air to fill and rejuvenate them.
Dribble turned and cantered to the side of the river, by the old moss covered jetty. The boys pulled up alongside and lifted themselves out.
“How did we do, Dame Crusty?” asked Robin.
While they lifted their vessel from the water, one looked down to consult one’s timepiece.
“And what’s your fastest time for that distance so far, poppets?” One enquired.
“Four and a half minutes” said Robin.
One left a dramatic pause, as is befitting on such occasions (though not quite as long as the pause taken on American Idol to give a result or goodness knows, one could still be there now) then revealed the answer.
“Four minutes … and five seconds!! Bravísimo!”
Well, they were of course thrilled. They jumped up and down, joyously clapping their blistered hands before grabbing their cox and heading into the boathouse to express their joy by getting a couple down their necks.
Closing the boathouse door behind them, one patted the neck of one’s trusty steed; “Do you know, Dribble, I think we may have potential Olympians there.”
With that, we trotted off back to the Crusty Hall estate.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Crusty Cuts Claudia Shaver's Ribbon.
One shuddered recently when one entered one’s private office to consult the daily appointments in one’s diary.
The day in question was to be free and filled with fun and frivolity, save for one appointment. Despite knowing full well one has no particular fondness for her, Chu Me had pencilled one in for an opening and ribbon cutting at a new business venture on the outskirts of the village. The venture was being set up by aging former village beauty queen, Claudia Shaver.
Claudia was a svelte creature in her younger days. She received many opportunities to model in such popular 70s publications as Cogs & Wheels Monthly, Electric Bulbs & Filaments and Bunty. Yet, Father Time had sadly not been kind, and that, combined with gravity, proved too much for her frame to bear.
In the early days she attempted to mimic one’s own elegant sashay, in a cunning plot to take international fashion runways by storm. However, owing to an unpleasant incident with a Qualcast lawn mower and an over indulgence of Strawberry Rose 20/20s, she was unable to achieve success … even when she wedged a folded odour eater into the heel of her right shoe.
As her figure plummeted towards earth, so did the number of offers for work. Her marriage to her husband, Klaus Shaver – which had been the envy of many in the village for some time – ended suddenly, when Klaus developed a love of gingham and ran off with his personal assistant, Tristan, to open a florist shop in the Yumbo Centro on Gran Canaria.
Anyhoo … Claudia seems to have spent the majority of money she had from the marriage break up and had taken the decision to open a model agency – something she knew about - in order to maintain a suitable income … and one supposes one must commend her for her initiative.
So, the time came to leave; Chu Me brought GUSSET 1 to the front of Crusty Hall and once settled in the back seat, one poured a small tumbler of gin, took a quick snifter and waved one hand so Chu Me could begin to pull off slowly.
Driving down the narrow country lanes, one certainly wasn’t expecting wonders from the occasion; one knew that Claudia was putting everything together on a very tight budget, so one focused on being utterly enchanting throughout … as always.
As the Bentley pulled up outside, there was a small crowd assembled – none of whom one would expect to see anywhere near a model agency - and even the vicar and his wife had turned up to bless the endeavour. Mr. Peppercorn the butcher too - rather strangely - could be seen at the back of the gathered mass, eager to get involved.
After the cutting of the ribbon and a ripple of applause from the onlookers, Claudia invited us all inside to mingle and christen the new offices. She came over, immediately, as one was scanning the buffet table.
“Champagne, Crusty? I don’t have any Cava.” She asked.
“Champagne would be splendid, Claudia dear.”
Filling one’s flute, she put the bottle down on the table beside us and turned to welcome a villager. Taking a small sip of the liquid, one’s face contorted as if one had just sucked an overly juicy lemon. Looking down to check the bottle, one was horrified to discover one was, in actual fact, drinking Babycham! One immediately, poured the contents of one’s glass back into the neck of the bottle.
Turning in one’s direction, Claudia asked, “So … is Kitty coming?”
“Goodness no, dear! She has far more important things to do with the day.”
”Ah! Well … at least you’re here.” She said smiling.
“In body, if not in spirit, dear: in body, if not in spirit.”
Her eyes caught the empty flute one was holding and she picked up the bottle to refill it.
“How are you finding the champagne?” She said, pouring carefully.
“It seems to be finding me, dear and one can’t get it down the neck quick enough. It’s like nothing one has tasted before.”
“I know! I got it from the cellar at the Badger’s Snatch. Willy let me have it for a very reasonable price. The bottles are 30 years old you know?” (The taste certainly suggested as much).
She seemed impressed with how long the bottles lasted, not knowing that every time she filled one’s glass and turned around one simply kept pouring it back in.
Anyhoo … one survived the rest of the soirée, though one didn’t feel up to indulging in anything from the buffet. Her prawn ring looked as if it had seen better days; reports were filtering back to warn her cheesy wotsits had been left out too long and had gone soft and one certainly didn’t want to chance the vol au vents after she told me her eczema had flared up again after her big opening had stressed her out.
It was all such a shame. For, though the food was well presented, the problem, one feels, was that nothing was fresh and one would not have been at all surprised if the supermarket had seen a peak in turnover the day before when the entire selection had been grabbed from the freezer section and purchased with the Nectar points she had accumulated at Christmas.
Or at least, that is what one thought, until one got chatting to Mr. Peppercorn. Pointing to Claudia’s brown baps in the corner, he whispered he’d proved the saviour of the day when he’d snuck round earlier to give her some tongue.
One turned to him and gazed upon him adoringly, “The village would be lost without you, dear! The epitome of kindness, you truly are.”
The day in question was to be free and filled with fun and frivolity, save for one appointment. Despite knowing full well one has no particular fondness for her, Chu Me had pencilled one in for an opening and ribbon cutting at a new business venture on the outskirts of the village. The venture was being set up by aging former village beauty queen, Claudia Shaver.
Claudia was a svelte creature in her younger days. She received many opportunities to model in such popular 70s publications as Cogs & Wheels Monthly, Electric Bulbs & Filaments and Bunty. Yet, Father Time had sadly not been kind, and that, combined with gravity, proved too much for her frame to bear.
In the early days she attempted to mimic one’s own elegant sashay, in a cunning plot to take international fashion runways by storm. However, owing to an unpleasant incident with a Qualcast lawn mower and an over indulgence of Strawberry Rose 20/20s, she was unable to achieve success … even when she wedged a folded odour eater into the heel of her right shoe.
As her figure plummeted towards earth, so did the number of offers for work. Her marriage to her husband, Klaus Shaver – which had been the envy of many in the village for some time – ended suddenly, when Klaus developed a love of gingham and ran off with his personal assistant, Tristan, to open a florist shop in the Yumbo Centro on Gran Canaria.
Anyhoo … Claudia seems to have spent the majority of money she had from the marriage break up and had taken the decision to open a model agency – something she knew about - in order to maintain a suitable income … and one supposes one must commend her for her initiative.
So, the time came to leave; Chu Me brought GUSSET 1 to the front of Crusty Hall and once settled in the back seat, one poured a small tumbler of gin, took a quick snifter and waved one hand so Chu Me could begin to pull off slowly.
Driving down the narrow country lanes, one certainly wasn’t expecting wonders from the occasion; one knew that Claudia was putting everything together on a very tight budget, so one focused on being utterly enchanting throughout … as always.
As the Bentley pulled up outside, there was a small crowd assembled – none of whom one would expect to see anywhere near a model agency - and even the vicar and his wife had turned up to bless the endeavour. Mr. Peppercorn the butcher too - rather strangely - could be seen at the back of the gathered mass, eager to get involved.
After the cutting of the ribbon and a ripple of applause from the onlookers, Claudia invited us all inside to mingle and christen the new offices. She came over, immediately, as one was scanning the buffet table.
“Champagne, Crusty? I don’t have any Cava.” She asked.
“Champagne would be splendid, Claudia dear.”
Filling one’s flute, she put the bottle down on the table beside us and turned to welcome a villager. Taking a small sip of the liquid, one’s face contorted as if one had just sucked an overly juicy lemon. Looking down to check the bottle, one was horrified to discover one was, in actual fact, drinking Babycham! One immediately, poured the contents of one’s glass back into the neck of the bottle.
Turning in one’s direction, Claudia asked, “So … is Kitty coming?”
“Goodness no, dear! She has far more important things to do with the day.”
”Ah! Well … at least you’re here.” She said smiling.
“In body, if not in spirit, dear: in body, if not in spirit.”
Her eyes caught the empty flute one was holding and she picked up the bottle to refill it.
“How are you finding the champagne?” She said, pouring carefully.
“It seems to be finding me, dear and one can’t get it down the neck quick enough. It’s like nothing one has tasted before.”
“I know! I got it from the cellar at the Badger’s Snatch. Willy let me have it for a very reasonable price. The bottles are 30 years old you know?” (The taste certainly suggested as much).
She seemed impressed with how long the bottles lasted, not knowing that every time she filled one’s glass and turned around one simply kept pouring it back in.
Anyhoo … one survived the rest of the soirée, though one didn’t feel up to indulging in anything from the buffet. Her prawn ring looked as if it had seen better days; reports were filtering back to warn her cheesy wotsits had been left out too long and had gone soft and one certainly didn’t want to chance the vol au vents after she told me her eczema had flared up again after her big opening had stressed her out.
It was all such a shame. For, though the food was well presented, the problem, one feels, was that nothing was fresh and one would not have been at all surprised if the supermarket had seen a peak in turnover the day before when the entire selection had been grabbed from the freezer section and purchased with the Nectar points she had accumulated at Christmas.
Or at least, that is what one thought, until one got chatting to Mr. Peppercorn. Pointing to Claudia’s brown baps in the corner, he whispered he’d proved the saviour of the day when he’d snuck round earlier to give her some tongue.
One turned to him and gazed upon him adoringly, “The village would be lost without you, dear! The epitome of kindness, you truly are.”
Ricky Martin - A Proud & Gay Poppet.
an utterly delicious poppet!One was lying in bed this morning, wrapped warmly in exquisite white Egyptian cotton sheets and engaged in the most delightful dream.
Doctor Christian Jessen and I were alone on a beach in a deserted cove, with the waves gently lapping against the pebbly shore. While he lay there - soaked in Factor 20, absorbing Señor Sol’s rays in a teasingly tight pair of swim-shorts and listening to his i-pod - one was sitting beside him in a charming one-piece bathing suit and wide-brimmed sunhat, busying oneself with smothering his muscled torso with dark chocolate body paint and sliced strawberries.
Just as one was about to feast upon him, with a bottle of chilled Pere Ventura cava, one sensed the giant hand of reality enter one’s state of wistful bliss only to pluck one quickly from within.
The explanation for this unwanted plucking was the revelation on the radio news that lip-dribblingly, Latin-lovely Ricky Martin has confirmed to the world he is gay on his website.
One doesn’t know about one’s poppets, but there was very little doubt in Crusty’s mind anyway. The way this delicious poppet dances is a major giveaway. One has attended many a dreaded “wedding do” and other breed of social function and one has never seen a heterosexual man who can rattle his hips like that. If they even tried it would be a taxi ride to A & E and 3 months in a body cast.
One swears to this day, while watching a performance of 'Livin’ La Vida Loca' on one’s 32 incher, one suffered a black eye when raunchy Ricky thrust his groin forward and let out a guttural “Huh”. The man oozes sexuality from every pore of his epidermal layer.
One, however, is delighted at the news and, now that he has got this off his smooth, muscled pectoral expanse, he can now enjoy an unburdened future with his partner and their adorable children.
May his hips swivel with happiness and contentment for all eternity and the oscillations of his vocal chords resonate beyond time itself.
One, however, is delighted at the news and, now that he has got this off his smooth, muscled pectoral expanse, he can now enjoy an unburdened future with his partner and their adorable children.
May his hips swivel with happiness and contentment for all eternity and the oscillations of his vocal chords resonate beyond time itself.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
The Queen of Regional News Returns.
Walking past the breakfast room this morning, one heard a strange noise which aroused one’s curiosity.
Pushing the door open slowly, in case anyone unsavoury had violated one’s inner sanctum, one found Crotchet rubbing the sides of his face against the side of the television in the corner. He was purring furiously and his tail was quivering as he conducted his rubbing ritual.
“Crotchet dear!” One shouted, “What on earth are you doing? Stop that at once!”
He immediately, jumped down from the table but weaved and turned frantically below it.
“What’s the matter, dear? Tell mummy.”
He sat and fixed his gaze upon the screen, which was showing some piece of Sunday nonsense. Well it couldn’t be that; the few minutes one saw were as absorbing as one of the vicar’s sermons. Picking up the remote one remembered the wonders of Sky+ and rewound the channel. It was then that all became clear.
The queen of North East evening news (and one suspects national news also … but you can’t have her), Her Serene Highness Carol Malia, is returning to our screens after her time off to give birth to her delicious baby daughter, Anna Margaret. One squealed with joy and lifting Crotchet into one’s arms. We danced around the breakfast table in celebration.
As a distant fairy godmother, one has arranged for the Doctor Christian Room to be cleaned thoroughly, then sealed until tomorrow evening. A bottle of Pere Ventura is being chilled and Chef has promised a delicious selection of nibbles so Chu Me and I can savour every minute of her return.
Pushing the door open slowly, in case anyone unsavoury had violated one’s inner sanctum, one found Crotchet rubbing the sides of his face against the side of the television in the corner. He was purring furiously and his tail was quivering as he conducted his rubbing ritual.
“Crotchet dear!” One shouted, “What on earth are you doing? Stop that at once!”
He immediately, jumped down from the table but weaved and turned frantically below it.
“What’s the matter, dear? Tell mummy.”
He sat and fixed his gaze upon the screen, which was showing some piece of Sunday nonsense. Well it couldn’t be that; the few minutes one saw were as absorbing as one of the vicar’s sermons. Picking up the remote one remembered the wonders of Sky+ and rewound the channel. It was then that all became clear.
The queen of North East evening news (and one suspects national news also … but you can’t have her), Her Serene Highness Carol Malia, is returning to our screens after her time off to give birth to her delicious baby daughter, Anna Margaret. One squealed with joy and lifting Crotchet into one’s arms. We danced around the breakfast table in celebration.
As a distant fairy godmother, one has arranged for the Doctor Christian Room to be cleaned thoroughly, then sealed until tomorrow evening. A bottle of Pere Ventura is being chilled and Chef has promised a delicious selection of nibbles so Chu Me and I can savour every minute of her return.
Your Country Chose You, Josh.
Ever since one was a little Damelette, one has had an intense passion for the Eurovision Song Contest, despite Terry Wogan and Katie Boyle.
One was thrilled last year to see the gorgeous Graham Norton and the delicious Andrew Lloyd-Webber putting so much effort into getting the nation behind our entry; weeks of different styles of song; the great British public voting for their favourite, then the stunning Jade being triumphant and amazing our European brothers and sisters with 'It’s My Time'.
Despite the fact it wasn’t, she did us proud and achieved a magnificent position on the scoreboard and now has a prominent position in the pop group The Sugacubes … Sugababes (thank you, Chu Me) and let’s be frank, it’s about time they had a group member who could sing, is it not?
However, it dismays one terrible that this year, it appears, we are not putting as much effort into things. We have gone to the enormous trouble of gaining the skills and Mike Stock and Pete Waterman to produce a toe-tapping ditty but the nation had to make their decision after a piss-poor karaoke session from our finalists and a shot at our Eurovision entry. Then all 60 million people had to pick up their phones and vote while a rather pleasing Norwegian sang about his fairy tale and before the kitchen kettle boiled. Crusty was outraged, though, one must confess, one felt the right selection was made with the lovely Josh Dubovie.
One does think Alexis (not Carrington-Colby-Dexter from Dynasty) also had stage presence, a rather pleasing aesthetic quality and a lovely smile … as well as a lovely voice, of course. One took a shine to this talented little poppet as soon as he revealed his head on stage.
That aside, what about the other four finalists. Well, one was very disappointed, one must say.
We had Karen, who we were told had a husky voice and a husky voice she had indeed. While Graham was introducing her, one looked around the Drawing Room to find Crotchet and when she started singing in the background, one felt Coronation Street’s Phyllis had resurrected and put herself forward … but where was Percy?
UniFive, Uni5, or some such nonsense, certainly seemed to have had potential. The BBC website tells us, '5 singers and dancers come together for YCNY'. Well, one’s quite sure they do, dear, but this is a singing competition and we'll have none of that filthy nonsense!
Anyhoo … they may come together but their harmonies seem to speed of into the sunset, in different directions and on totally different modes of transport.
Miss Fitz were the greatest disappointment. After their sassed up interpretation of Brittle Spear’s ‘Toxic’ on Britain’s Got Talent one wished they had done a similar thing with the S.A.W. number, then one thinks they could have been the viewers’ choice.
Finally, we were presented with Asthma, or some such fancy. An absolutely gorgeous creature with eyes like cooling pools of infinite deepness. Sadly, her performances were not worthy of our nation’s representation. Looking like a non-cast member of the Glee club she blasted her song selections from the deepest pit of her lungs. Her enthusiasm, however, made her lose her energy through her first number. This was self evident at one point when she rolled her eyes as if to say, “How long does this song go on for!?”
Her dancing was that of a young lady, with little confidence, on a night out at a local social club and one screamed at the screen for a member of the production crew to drop a handbag at her feet and a Bacardi Breezer in her hand, at least to make her feel a little more comfortable.
The one thing that let her down most of all, however, was her breath control. One has never seen a performer draw in oxygen during a lyric (unless of course they can breathe through their ears) and one feels this was her downfall with the forgetting of words and the need to apologise to the audience.
Honestly poppets, Fanny’s mother has better breath control and she’s on 80 a day!
Despite the lack of effort put in by the BBC – no doubt, because of their search for a Dorothy (one has come across many a Dorothy, poppets … and trust me … they’re not that difficult to find) – one hopes all one’s poppets, twitterchums and Crustettes will get behind the deliciously sexy Josh and keep their fingers crossed we have a win in 2010.
One was thrilled last year to see the gorgeous Graham Norton and the delicious Andrew Lloyd-Webber putting so much effort into getting the nation behind our entry; weeks of different styles of song; the great British public voting for their favourite, then the stunning Jade being triumphant and amazing our European brothers and sisters with 'It’s My Time'.
Despite the fact it wasn’t, she did us proud and achieved a magnificent position on the scoreboard and now has a prominent position in the pop group The Sugacubes … Sugababes (thank you, Chu Me) and let’s be frank, it’s about time they had a group member who could sing, is it not?
However, it dismays one terrible that this year, it appears, we are not putting as much effort into things. We have gone to the enormous trouble of gaining the skills and Mike Stock and Pete Waterman to produce a toe-tapping ditty but the nation had to make their decision after a piss-poor karaoke session from our finalists and a shot at our Eurovision entry. Then all 60 million people had to pick up their phones and vote while a rather pleasing Norwegian sang about his fairy tale and before the kitchen kettle boiled. Crusty was outraged, though, one must confess, one felt the right selection was made with the lovely Josh Dubovie.One does think Alexis (not Carrington-Colby-Dexter from Dynasty) also had stage presence, a rather pleasing aesthetic quality and a lovely smile … as well as a lovely voice, of course. One took a shine to this talented little poppet as soon as he revealed his head on stage.
That aside, what about the other four finalists. Well, one was very disappointed, one must say.
We had Karen, who we were told had a husky voice and a husky voice she had indeed. While Graham was introducing her, one looked around the Drawing Room to find Crotchet and when she started singing in the background, one felt Coronation Street’s Phyllis had resurrected and put herself forward … but where was Percy?
UniFive, Uni5, or some such nonsense, certainly seemed to have had potential. The BBC website tells us, '5 singers and dancers come together for YCNY'. Well, one’s quite sure they do, dear, but this is a singing competition and we'll have none of that filthy nonsense!
Anyhoo … they may come together but their harmonies seem to speed of into the sunset, in different directions and on totally different modes of transport.
Miss Fitz were the greatest disappointment. After their sassed up interpretation of Brittle Spear’s ‘Toxic’ on Britain’s Got Talent one wished they had done a similar thing with the S.A.W. number, then one thinks they could have been the viewers’ choice.
Finally, we were presented with Asthma, or some such fancy. An absolutely gorgeous creature with eyes like cooling pools of infinite deepness. Sadly, her performances were not worthy of our nation’s representation. Looking like a non-cast member of the Glee club she blasted her song selections from the deepest pit of her lungs. Her enthusiasm, however, made her lose her energy through her first number. This was self evident at one point when she rolled her eyes as if to say, “How long does this song go on for!?”
Her dancing was that of a young lady, with little confidence, on a night out at a local social club and one screamed at the screen for a member of the production crew to drop a handbag at her feet and a Bacardi Breezer in her hand, at least to make her feel a little more comfortable.
The one thing that let her down most of all, however, was her breath control. One has never seen a performer draw in oxygen during a lyric (unless of course they can breathe through their ears) and one feels this was her downfall with the forgetting of words and the need to apologise to the audience.
Honestly poppets, Fanny’s mother has better breath control and she’s on 80 a day!
Despite the lack of effort put in by the BBC – no doubt, because of their search for a Dorothy (one has come across many a Dorothy, poppets … and trust me … they’re not that difficult to find) – one hopes all one’s poppets, twitterchums and Crustettes will get behind the deliciously sexy Josh and keep their fingers crossed we have a win in 2010.
Crusty Comes Home.
The short stay in Valencia was over and the journey home began. All in all it was smooth sailing except for a slight inconvenience at the soon to be refurbished Terminal 2 at Barcelona airport. Though many flights are now leaving the new and completely stunning Terminal 1, there are still some smaller companies utilising the facilities of the old one.
Upon arrival at the airport, one’s faithful houseboy Chu Me and I made our way to the main building. It seemed almost deserted as the escalatorial mechanism lowered us to the highly polished floor. Chu Me, efficient as ever, walked over to the information screen to find out where we needed to be; Terminal C.
For poppets who may not have travelled to Barcelona Terminal C (in Terminal 2) is a considerable distance to walk from the area of train disembarkment in Terminal B . It is certainly not a journey one can make easyily in Gucci two-piece and matching shoes. So, Chu Me and I stood and pondered our predicament. At the very moment of one’s ponderings, an electric airport buggy approached us. Taking hold of Chu Me’s arm quickly, one flung him in the path of the buggy. The tiny rubber wheels screeched against the polished floor tiles and the young driver – with a name badge identifying him as Juan - screamed.
“Buenos dias. One wonders if you would be able to take us to Terminal C, dear? One asked with a pitiful look on one’s face (One had seen Esther Rantzen use it many times and it seemed to work for her).
“Sí, Dame Crusty (Esther knows what she’s talking about)… but not I am able to take the maletas.” He said, pointing to one’s luggage and still in mild shock after his near collision with Chu Me.
One looked around for a moment and saw a rather attractive, older gentleman speaking English on his mobile phone. I sashayed quickly to his side, removed the phone from his hand and disconnected the call.
“Could you do Crusty a favour, dear? This nice airport employee is taking one to one’s check-in desk. Would you be a kindly poppet and carry one’s luggage for one?” As the unexpected good Samaritan replied, “I …I … well … my telephone …you want me?”
“Yes, dear, you’ve clearly got time on your hands if you’re just standing there chatting.”
“Well, I suppose…”
“Good show, dear!” One cried, applauding his enthusiasm.
“Which desk are you checking in at?” He inquired with an air of bewilderment. Banging one’s foot on the floor of the buggy, Juan began to jerk off slowly and one began to shout the information as our speed increased and we sped off into the distance.
“Terminal C, dear! Oh, and drop them off by Speedy Boarding, there’s a poppet.”
Within minutes, Juan had pulled up outside the entrance of the terminal and, kissing him tenderly in his forehead and patting him softly on the top of his head, one bid him farewell. It was approximately 15 minutes later when a man entered the doors with a face the colour of a ripened plumb. It was one’s sweet and sweaty Samaritan.
Panting heavily, he dropped one’s luggage in front of Chu Me, “I … couldn’t … couldn’t find a trolley.” He stood up and put is hands to the base of his back and pushed to straighten himself, while giving a pained look on his ripened face.
“Never mind, dear. You made it here … eventually!” one replied.
Checking in was very straight forward, however it would appear old Father Fate was waiting for one just past the security section. Chu Me checked the boarding passes and our gate was in … Terminal A!
“Goodness!!! Chu me, dear, if one has to sashay elegantly all the way to the other end of this airport, one fears Gucci heels will become Gucci pumps by the time one reaches the Salvador Dalí lounge! One is not prepared to wear down six inches unnecessarily.”
Dejected, one rested in a chair of a closed down cafeteria until Chu Me turned up with a small trolley designed specifically for hand baggage. One’s eyes widened at our good fortune and immediately mounted the trolley and sat comfortably on the basket section. Once settled, Chu Me pushed me the entire length of the airport. With one’s umbrella in one’s right hand and one’s handbag in one’s left, one felt like Britannia herself as one glided through the airport – passengers gasping as one passed - to the security gates at the other side.
A few hours later and one was back in Her Majesty’s realm. GUSSET 3 pulled into the wide gravel drive of Crusty Hall and, as Chu Me stopped to wait until the gates closed behind us, one saw Crotchet sitting by the old, moss covered bird table. He turned and his little eyes widened when one tapped against the car window. As we crunched along the drive towards the residence, Crotchet bounded likes a gazelle up the lawn and through the shrubbery to the steps outside the main door, where one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour was waiting (Fanny, Landlady of the Badger’s Snatch, always tends to my dear pussy when one is on holiday). Alighting from the GUSSET 3, Fanny ran towards one and we embraced.
“Crusty, I’ve missed you so much.” She said.
“Goodness, poppet, it’s only been a week! Tell me …Crotchet … has he behaved himself?”
“He’s been an absolute joy to look after … as always.”
One turned to look at Crotchet, who was now sitting erect and proud by the large plant pot by the door. The look on his face telling me he thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Indeed he was.
How wonderful it is to be back home.
Upon arrival at the airport, one’s faithful houseboy Chu Me and I made our way to the main building. It seemed almost deserted as the escalatorial mechanism lowered us to the highly polished floor. Chu Me, efficient as ever, walked over to the information screen to find out where we needed to be; Terminal C.
For poppets who may not have travelled to Barcelona Terminal C (in Terminal 2) is a considerable distance to walk from the area of train disembarkment in Terminal B . It is certainly not a journey one can make easyily in Gucci two-piece and matching shoes. So, Chu Me and I stood and pondered our predicament. At the very moment of one’s ponderings, an electric airport buggy approached us. Taking hold of Chu Me’s arm quickly, one flung him in the path of the buggy. The tiny rubber wheels screeched against the polished floor tiles and the young driver – with a name badge identifying him as Juan - screamed.
“Buenos dias. One wonders if you would be able to take us to Terminal C, dear? One asked with a pitiful look on one’s face (One had seen Esther Rantzen use it many times and it seemed to work for her).
“Sí, Dame Crusty (Esther knows what she’s talking about)… but not I am able to take the maletas.” He said, pointing to one’s luggage and still in mild shock after his near collision with Chu Me.
One looked around for a moment and saw a rather attractive, older gentleman speaking English on his mobile phone. I sashayed quickly to his side, removed the phone from his hand and disconnected the call.
“Could you do Crusty a favour, dear? This nice airport employee is taking one to one’s check-in desk. Would you be a kindly poppet and carry one’s luggage for one?” As the unexpected good Samaritan replied, “I …I … well … my telephone …you want me?”
“Yes, dear, you’ve clearly got time on your hands if you’re just standing there chatting.”
“Well, I suppose…”
“Good show, dear!” One cried, applauding his enthusiasm.
“Which desk are you checking in at?” He inquired with an air of bewilderment. Banging one’s foot on the floor of the buggy, Juan began to jerk off slowly and one began to shout the information as our speed increased and we sped off into the distance.
“Terminal C, dear! Oh, and drop them off by Speedy Boarding, there’s a poppet.”
Within minutes, Juan had pulled up outside the entrance of the terminal and, kissing him tenderly in his forehead and patting him softly on the top of his head, one bid him farewell. It was approximately 15 minutes later when a man entered the doors with a face the colour of a ripened plumb. It was one’s sweet and sweaty Samaritan.
Panting heavily, he dropped one’s luggage in front of Chu Me, “I … couldn’t … couldn’t find a trolley.” He stood up and put is hands to the base of his back and pushed to straighten himself, while giving a pained look on his ripened face.
“Never mind, dear. You made it here … eventually!” one replied.
Checking in was very straight forward, however it would appear old Father Fate was waiting for one just past the security section. Chu Me checked the boarding passes and our gate was in … Terminal A!
“Goodness!!! Chu me, dear, if one has to sashay elegantly all the way to the other end of this airport, one fears Gucci heels will become Gucci pumps by the time one reaches the Salvador Dalí lounge! One is not prepared to wear down six inches unnecessarily.”
Dejected, one rested in a chair of a closed down cafeteria until Chu Me turned up with a small trolley designed specifically for hand baggage. One’s eyes widened at our good fortune and immediately mounted the trolley and sat comfortably on the basket section. Once settled, Chu Me pushed me the entire length of the airport. With one’s umbrella in one’s right hand and one’s handbag in one’s left, one felt like Britannia herself as one glided through the airport – passengers gasping as one passed - to the security gates at the other side.
A few hours later and one was back in Her Majesty’s realm. GUSSET 3 pulled into the wide gravel drive of Crusty Hall and, as Chu Me stopped to wait until the gates closed behind us, one saw Crotchet sitting by the old, moss covered bird table. He turned and his little eyes widened when one tapped against the car window. As we crunched along the drive towards the residence, Crotchet bounded likes a gazelle up the lawn and through the shrubbery to the steps outside the main door, where one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour was waiting (Fanny, Landlady of the Badger’s Snatch, always tends to my dear pussy when one is on holiday). Alighting from the GUSSET 3, Fanny ran towards one and we embraced.
“Crusty, I’ve missed you so much.” She said.
“Goodness, poppet, it’s only been a week! Tell me …Crotchet … has he behaved himself?”
“He’s been an absolute joy to look after … as always.”
One turned to look at Crotchet, who was now sitting erect and proud by the large plant pot by the door. The look on his face telling me he thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Indeed he was.
How wonderful it is to be back home.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Valencia 2010 - Elegance, Rain and Fluttering Flaps.
One’s visit to Crusty Towers, in the heart of Valencia, was just as relaxing as one had anticipated.
From the first night, when one went out for a spot of dinner, one felt welcomed and loved by the locals of this beautiful city. Sashaying majestically along Calle Caballeros, with Chu Me close behind, one passed by the crowded bars and cafes near the corner of Calle Baja. There, large windows displayed the gorgeous people inside enjoying their evening’s frivolities.
At one point one was almost moved to tears, as the revellers in two establishments all stopped and turned to look at one – one’s beaded gown shimmering in the street lighting and a mesmerising and multicoloured discharge exploded from one’s baubles; the shafts of bejewelled light ricocheting off the walls of the surrounding buildings.
In an instant, they had whipped up there serviettes, scarves and other garmentry adornments and had raised them high into the air; circling their hands, they twirled them enthusiastically as one passed by. The Barrio del Carmen momentarily rang out with their voices.
“Guapa!! Guapa!!”
One nodded humbly to the masses and waved elegantly, before heading to Cafe San Miguel to gorge oneself on the delicious delicacies served within.
Despite Mother Nature insisting on sprinkling her tears over the city for one’s arrival and the following day, one managed to tolerate the unexpected moistness without any great problem. After that, Señor Sol returned and, although he did not have his hat on, he certainly managed to warm the skies to an agreeable level.
There was one particular night, however, when one got a terrible shock. One had taken a small cat-nap in the lounge, when suddenly one woke up with a severe wind blasting under one’s canopy. Urgent attention was required and one called for Chu Me to spring into action. Within seconds, he had hoisted one’s canopy to its uppermost; nevertheless, for another hour, one had to endure further fierce flutterings of one’s flaps until, with the aid of some velcro and an elastic band, Chu Me restored penthouse tranquillity.
Sadly, one had to leave before the start of the fiesta of Las Fallas – one shall return to that next year, one thinks; it seems an age since one was absorbed in the excitement of it all and one misses it so.
From the first night, when one went out for a spot of dinner, one felt welcomed and loved by the locals of this beautiful city. Sashaying majestically along Calle Caballeros, with Chu Me close behind, one passed by the crowded bars and cafes near the corner of Calle Baja. There, large windows displayed the gorgeous people inside enjoying their evening’s frivolities.
At one point one was almost moved to tears, as the revellers in two establishments all stopped and turned to look at one – one’s beaded gown shimmering in the street lighting and a mesmerising and multicoloured discharge exploded from one’s baubles; the shafts of bejewelled light ricocheting off the walls of the surrounding buildings.
In an instant, they had whipped up there serviettes, scarves and other garmentry adornments and had raised them high into the air; circling their hands, they twirled them enthusiastically as one passed by. The Barrio del Carmen momentarily rang out with their voices.
“Guapa!! Guapa!!”
One nodded humbly to the masses and waved elegantly, before heading to Cafe San Miguel to gorge oneself on the delicious delicacies served within.
Despite Mother Nature insisting on sprinkling her tears over the city for one’s arrival and the following day, one managed to tolerate the unexpected moistness without any great problem. After that, Señor Sol returned and, although he did not have his hat on, he certainly managed to warm the skies to an agreeable level.
There was one particular night, however, when one got a terrible shock. One had taken a small cat-nap in the lounge, when suddenly one woke up with a severe wind blasting under one’s canopy. Urgent attention was required and one called for Chu Me to spring into action. Within seconds, he had hoisted one’s canopy to its uppermost; nevertheless, for another hour, one had to endure further fierce flutterings of one’s flaps until, with the aid of some velcro and an elastic band, Chu Me restored penthouse tranquillity.
Sadly, one had to leave before the start of the fiesta of Las Fallas – one shall return to that next year, one thinks; it seems an age since one was absorbed in the excitement of it all and one misses it so.
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