The Charm Offensive
Ah the natural curiosity of children. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?
Ha! Only a fool would make such a claim! It is, in fact, an unpredictable hair trigger waiting to ping mud all over the faces of the parents who were foolhardy enough to parade their children in public.
Children will point. Children will exclaim. Children will stare open mouthed. Children will drop you right in it.
Yesterday my son, Indy, who is old enough to know better, exclaimed sharply “Mum! Look!” and made me turn round and look straight at a little girl with quite extreme birth defects.
All of a sudden I unwittingly turn into one of the legions of people who gape and stare at this little girl and her mum.
Indy realised what he’d done as soon as it happened, especially when I turned sharpish back to him with the face that instantly says:
“Shutuprightnowwemighthavegotawaywithit
butyouareinbigtroublemakenomistake”
You know the one.
Once the coast was clear I realised that Indy was starting to tear up a bit, about what he had just done, so I said, “It’s OK, it’s OK you just can’t do that to me OK? You can’t stare and whisper at people. That poor woman probably has to put up with people staring at her little girl all the time.”
“I know, I’m sorry” he said, cheeks flushed and lip trembling slightly. I could tell he felt pretty bad and I suppose yesterday will have marked the point where he realises you can’t blurt out like a banshee every time you see a dwarf, midget, hunchback, Rastafarian, excessively tall person* or any other remarkable character that the two of my children have routinely shrieked at throughout the years.
Life lessons, eh?
Sadly for Meeester and I, we’ve got years of this still to come in the form of one four year old Junior Misssy, though.
One incident happened quite loudly and recently.
There is a woman who works in a local department store who is no bigger than Junior Misssy. She was stationed at the changing rooms when we went in.
“Mummy, why is that wee girl working here?” she bellowed like Brian Blessed in a high wind.
Understand folks, the “wee girl” is standing right in front of us, giving us our tag for the changing area. The woman smiles and says hello to Junior. She also remarks on how cute Junior is, presumably to dissolve my embarrassment. I suppress the urge to haul the still staring Junior away by the scruff before more damage can be done and Jnr Misssy returns the compliment to her.
In the changing room it goes on, “But Mummy how come that wee girl works here?”
“She’s not a wee girl she’s just a lady who is tiny” I whisper, not sure if I am being any more PC than my daughter.
Loudly (please note all of Junior’s dialogue is LOUD in this scenario) she says, “But why is that tiny lady working here?”
It’s like she’s actually questioning why the woman has a job here, and she doesn’t. I am also instantly regretting using the phrase “tiny lady”.
I whisper an explanation of the woman being very tiny as a baby and not growing very big as she got older but still able to work and fine in all other respects. After some further key questions are answered, I am happy that Junior Misssy has understood and will be quiet for the next five minutes until we can escape.
Junior is indeed quiet. So quiet that I when turn round to see what she is up to, I see she has poked her whole head out the curtain and is full on staring at the “tiny lady”.
We have to get out.
Jnr Misssy talks about the tiny lady all the way home. In fact she talks about her still, when we’re in town. “Will we see the tiny lady?” “Why does that tiny lady work there again?”
Jeeez. I can never go back.
And it’s not just tiny ladies that have found Junior Misssy’s radar. On holiday, we were sitting down to breakfast when a 3 year old Junior Misssy shouts, “Mummy, look at that fat lady eating!!” as a poor innocent chubby woman tucks into her buffet breakfast.
Junior’s proclamation is loud and pointy enough for me to have to apologise to the woman, probably making it all worse.
Mind you, I bet she just had a grapefruit the next day.
* All actual occurrences. Apologies to all concerned.
What the Vicar Saw
I’m glad I’m not in a sitcom.
I’m glad I’m not in a Brian Rix theatrical farce.
I’m even gladder that I’m not Hattie Jacques in a Carry On film, or one of the busty ladies from Benny Hill.
Why am I glad?
Because when my son and his friends were playing dress up today with all our ex-Halloween costumes and decided it would be a laugh to come down dressed in Meeester’s hand crafted* (from a pair of Primark pyjamas and some fake fur) “Man from the Joy of Sex Book” body-suit, complete with sewn on chest wig, penis and pubic hair….well if I had been in any of those pieces of 70s entertainment, the vicar surely would have called just at that moment.
Oooer, missus!
* yes, I have made an anatomically correct penis from felt and stuffing. I’m not proud of it.
Actually, I am proud, it was bloody brilliant.
Stop Press: Meeester says a photo of him in the suit is, indeed, required..so here it is:
Well-hard Wedding
You’ve got to feel sorry for Colleen McLaughlin.
Apart from the obvious (waking up to the sight she has to wake up to), it appears she’s having problems with the invitation list to her wedding. She’s worried about Rooney’s dodgy family ruining her day. They are a bunch of rough diamonds apparently. Who’da thunk it?
Most people will think she’s a snotty cow, but I feel for her.
About a month before Meester and I got married, we had to attend a family wedding in Meeester’s parents’ hometown of Motherwell. Those of you who know Motherwell are taking a sharp intake of breath right about now.
Meeester’s folks left Motherwell in the sixties when they got married, but the rest of the family still live there. Motherwell is well hard. In fact it should be called Motherwellhard.
It was 1995 and one of the cousins is getting wed. For some reason, the full extended Martini clan decided to attend this wedding.
It was a colourful day, to say the least.
The Bride
The Bride is tiny, brunette and pretty. We see her for the first time as she comes down the aisle.
Double take…there are five clones behind her in shiny aqua puffball dresses. Her five bridesmaids are clearly her sisters. They are exact copies of her except they range in size.
Her’s is your typical East-End Glasgow Catholic family. Quite a few Glasgow Catholics still practice the no-contraception thing. I mean, even the Irish are ditching that one- there’s just South America, Africa and Glasgow making sure not a single spermatozoa is spilled.
Living proof of this practice is these six girls, all with barely nine months between them. The reason they all look exactly the same is because the poor mother’s body didn’t have time to reset and make a new template for the next kid as soon as the last one was out. It still thought it was making the last one.
Mother of the bride is probably only 33 but looks 70, and is probably expecting the next clone.
It gets Stephen King freakier when you see the sisters all lined up at the top table later on. They’re like Russian dolls, ‘cept in polyester, frosted lipstick and sovereign rings. They are named after dead nuns.
The Best Man
Cousin groom’s best man is his elder brother. He is a known Motherwell hardman and has seen the inside of chokey on more than a few occasions. Meeester remembers him fondly as a cool older cousin. A cool older cousin who has morphed into a dangerous geezer involved in some dodgy rackets. What a difference a decade makes. His hard mates are around him throughout the day like he is some kind of Weegie Tony Soprano.
The Line Up
Oh! What to do in the line up? What’s that line in Four Weddings and a Funeral?
“I hate line-ups, I never know what to say”
“Just smile and say, ‘You must be very proud’.”
Good advice. Hugh and his posh pals might not have been so worried about social niceties in this line up situation. Their manners would be severely challenged if the best man were to grab their girlfriend bodily and effectively feel her up. On being introduced to the Best Man, my arse was squeezed and fondled and he grunted in my ear,
“C’mere darlin’”. Not that I could come any closer.
I’ve not been violated in a line up before or since.
Apart from the obvious embarrassment, I spent the next half hour worried that this faction of the family may yet accept their invitation to my own nuptials and I will be molested once again in my own line-up in a month’s time.
The Wedding Feast
We’re in the Motherwell Miner’s Social Club for the reception; not featuring in Brides Magazine alongside Blenheim Palace any time soon. Staff come round for drinks orders and are immediately flummoxed by Meeester’s request,
Meeester: Which reds do you have?
Waiter: Eh?
Meeester: Red Wine? Is there a House Red?
Waiter: Hang on…(shouts the full length of the hall) Bernadette! Hiv we goat ony wine?”
Barmaid: Em, I dunno, there’s maybe a boattle in the back, Stevie.
Meeester is brought Co-Op Red Lambrusco, with dust on the bottle (must be vintage). I never knew there was such a thing. But there it was in all it’s sachharine sweet, pinky, fizzy 3% alc. £1.99 glory. Oz Clarke would have started a flippin’ riot.
All around us, it’s shorts, nips and pints. You can feel the disapproval of the guests at the uppity ways of the Martinis.
“ Wine? Wine? ….Fuckin’ poof. “
The Top Table
Meeester’s Mum has been asked to sing at the service, and to show their thanks, she is invited to sit at the top table with the Wedding Party.
There are about ten people she barely knows sat beside her. We look over and feel sorry for her.
We feel even sorrier for her when we realise that she is the only person at the top table not smoking. And I’m not talking lighting up after the meal; the full table all have fags on the go throughout the dinner. The Mother of the Bride has one wedged in her fingers as she holds her cutlery, king-ash threatening to sully her steak pie at every turn. Food is eaten in-between draws.
Meeester Gets a Dress Rehearsal
Meeester is the only one of the guests in a kilt.
He feels uneasy at first, since everyone else is in a suit. He feels more self-conscious when, after the dinner tables are cleared, the entire wedding party have gone and got changed into shirts and jeans, boob tubes and minge base skirts, like it was any other Saturday night at the Miner’s Social.
At one point the groom and best man go off with their mates to play pool in the other room!
As a result of this, drunken people at the club think Meeester’s the groom. All night he is being bought drinks by random strangers, and on several occasions he has to refuse money crushed into his hands as a wedding gift.
Red-faced broken veined certain heart attack victim: I didnae hae time to get you anything, but that’s for your honeymoon, son.
Meeester: Oh! I’m not the groom.
Heart attack: (Not hearing, or caring) You look aifter that wee lassie…she’s a fuckin’ diamond….
Heart attack drunkenly sways off…leaving Meeester clutching money.
As the night goes on, the reception turns into a drunken nightmare, with fights outside and sweating dipsomaniac uncles starting family arguments with other sweating dipsomaniac uncles.
Terrifyingly, more and more relatives I’ve never met start to make noises about organising mini buses and such to Aberdeen for our wedding.
Of course, they never came.
And like Colleen, I’m afraid, I was quite glad.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…
I know it’s early to be thinking about Christmas but I am. I have to. This year it’s the turn of the Flying Martinis to play host for Meeester’s ever growing side of the family on Christmas Day.
I’ve only ever cooked Christmas dinner once and I can’t really remember a damn thing about how it turned out, I was that nervous. It may have been okay; no-one died.
But it’s a fraught affair isn’t it, this Christmas lark? And this year I am booking us into the local hotel for lunch to ease the general fraughtness and re-introduce some Christmas spirit back into the proceedings by way of paying other folk to clear up our mess.
So, since Christmas is on my mind, I am going to treat you to a top ten list of:
Flying Martini Fraught Christmas Moments.
- It’s Boxing Day at Meeester’s brother’s house. His now long-gone girlfriend (now replaced by an infinitely better model) shrieks loudly and manically in the kitchen in earshot of assembled family members, “If they think they are getting a fried breakfast they can think again. They’re like a swarm of locusts!!!” Car ignitions are put into action a mere ten minutes later.
- Snowed in at Misssy’s parents’ house. It’s Meeester’s first Christmas as a married man, and his first at the new in-laws. The assembled family decide to go round the table and ask each family member to sing their party piece. Meeester seals his reputation with my aghast aging grandparents when he launches into, “The Hairs on her Dickie Di-Do”. Cue Christmas tumbleweed. Snow plough ignitions are put into action minutes later.
C’mon everybody, you know the words!
“The hairs on her dickie di do
Go down to her knees!
One White One,
One Black One,
One with a bit of shite on,
And one with a fairy light on
To show you the way!”
Very festive, I think you’ll agree.
- Back in Meeester’s brother’s house, other brother in law opens 20 year-old vintage bottle of wine, uninvited from wine rack. Tears are shed privately. People are not invited back.
- Twin sister in law sits down triumphantly after serving sumptuous first ever Chrissie dinner. At that very same second a marital barney erupts between another couple. Tears are shed. Car ignitions are in action before party games can even begin.
- Misssy’s drunken and now deceased grandfather wanders disorientatedly downstairs in full view of living room full of revelers, completely naked. Misssy’s brother describes his little bottom as “You know how a balloon goes soft and wrinkly after a few days…like that”
- My darling mother in law (no, really she is darling) and her new husband dress up as snowmen in white chemical protection suits and silver wigs and perform “Frosty the Snowman” for the kids. This was three years ago. The kids have only just felt calm enough to approach them again. Scary. Evil clown scary. We’ve got it on video but it would be like showing you that video tape on the film, “The Ring”.
- My dad fashions a penis out of the plasticine used in the game “Cranium” and my elderly Gran asks him what it is. My mother immediately sends him to bed like a naughty child. And he actually goes!
- My brother in law, dressed as Santa, is violently ill on my parents’ lawn after liberating the contents of a whisky bottle. Grass doesn’t grow on a 5 inch patch for over two years.
- The same brother in law that drank the vintage wine tips the two-hours-in-the-making raspberry coulis for desert down the sink whilst washing up the main course plates. Misssy stifles tears.
- There’s a power cut on Christmas Day at Aunt and Uncle’s house, and the turkey has to be cooked on the barbecue in the snowbound garden. That bit was fun. Entertaining the telly-less grandparents is less so; an impossible task. Uncle reaches in desperation for the guitar to play “House of the Rising Sun” (his only song) as the lights come back on and we are all saved.
Dysfunctional? Us?
It’s been a shit week in the House of the Flying Martinis. I didn’t realise how much losing Jessie would devastate me. I’ll spare you the details, I’m not too good at confessional stuff. I was fine on the day it happened but come Tuesday I fell to pieces quite spectacularly. Writing that blog about Jessie on Tuesday morning pretty much started it all off. I needed a bit of release and punting my feelings into cyberspace seemed to do it for me.
Anyway out of all the crap came forth a bit of sweetness in the form of my brother who is providing this week’s “Quote of the Week… Kinda”.
On Tuesday night I was in a state, to put it mildly. I tried to phone my sister- engaged. I tried to phone my brother- no answer. I tried to phone my Dad, left a message for him demanding that he get a phone put in his shed. Around the same time, my mum who has been trying to get hold of dad all day, phones from Glasgow to leave an umpteenth irate message about him phoning her back. She also retrieves all messages from her house phone and hears my message to Dad.
She clearly thinks, “If MisssyM is phoning Dad for consolation, things must be bad”
She phones me immediately and I am hysterical about Jessie. It all just came out. Mum gets full force. Now I realise this is all a bit depressing but hang on, this is where the funny bit starts. I wail at my Mum before she hangs up, “I looovvvve you Muuuuum!”. My family doesn’t really do “I love you”. But it doesn’t mean we don’t.
Within ten minutes my dad is at the door. He may as well have arrived on a white horse, dressed in armour, with a big curly black moustache and a sword. He has a glass of wine, stays for about an hour and we talk about politics. Like we do.
The next day my brother phones me. This is what he said,
“Mum is really worried about you. She told me that you said you loved her. Isn’t it funny that someone saying that you love them in our family sets off a red alert. That’s so us. Right, here’s what I want you to do. Pick up the phone, phone Mum and tell her you don’t love her. That it was all a mistake”
That made me laugh.
Run Misssy Run!
Yesterday: Scenario One
08.57am: Misssy wakes up, looks at alarm clock. “Fuck!” is her first word of the day.
08.57 and 3 seconds am: Wakes sleeping Indy with the bad news, “We’re late, you’re going to be late for school! I’m sorry! Get dressed! No time for breakfast! Just put this on! I’m so sorry!”
Indy starts to cry. “Why did you sleep in? Evil Mrs S will give me a row”
08.59am: Misssy, whilst shoving still sleeping, weeping, breakfast-less, packed lunch-less Indy out the door, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry…Here’s some dinner money!”
Throws some coins in Indy’s direction.
09.00am: Wake Junior Misssy . Junior Misssy refuses any clothing Misssy chooses and fight ensues.
09.15am: Jnr is flung into Nursery wearing God knows what.
9.16am: Misssy rushes back to computer. Misssy has deadline today and her script has been passed to lovely L in the company she is working for to be proof read. Which is a good thing as regular readers of the Misssives will testify to typo filled prose.
09.30am: Misssy also has phone meeting with her project manager. It’s supposed to be at 9.15. Also still no sign of proof-read script for her to double check, accept millions of changes and have delivered in plenty of time to client that she is meeting at 1pm that day, giving him time to check over it and approve it before the day is out.
10.05am: Misssy has shower. No time to dry or straighten hair. Misssy looks like Alice Cooper, except not as good.
10.30am: Proof-reader emails “Sorry my computer crashed. Will get script to you ASAP. It’s a nightmare here”
11.30am: Run to get Jnr from nursery. Misssy forgets to bring money for Nursery trip tomorrow. Bugger.
11.45am: Script arrives but L has changed a lot of terms that the client wants left in. Misssy has to go through the lot and retype them. She also has to get Junior to sister’s 6 miles in the opposite direction of where she is due for her meeting at 1pm.
11.46am: Misssy stupidly thinks she can check over a 60 page script and email it all sorted to client before setting off at 12 noon.
11.59am: Misssy realises she has no hope of sorting any of this out and abandons project in favour of keeping appointment instead.
12.15pm: Misssy flings Jnr Misssy at sister barely stopping the car to do so.
12.17pm: Misssy remembers that the petrol light has been on since yesterday. She thinks she should be able to run on fumes the 16 miles to town. Before meeting will stop into get petrol. Prays to God for assistance in this.
12.50pm: Stuck in traffic at bottom of so called ringroad. See petrol station over the road. Realises she’ll have to get petrol after meeting. Will run on fumes to meeting. Prays to Vishnu for assistance in this.
1pm: Misssy is still on ring road. Why can’t anyone else but her drive properly?
1.15pm: Misssy arrives at client’s reception, sweating. Receptionist gives her message from Project Manager. Can Misssy phone her before going in? Results of call unimportant to story but Misssy is set back a further 3 mins.
1.18pm: Misssy has meeting. She nods a lot and pretends to understand algebra being spoken like it is English. She is in a constant state of thinly disguised panic. She must be out of meeting before 3. Client knows this but of course she is 20 minutes late so she doesn’t press the point.
3.05 pm: Misssy gets back to badly parked car. Indy is out of school in 10 minutes. He knows to come straight home as he has dentist appointment. But Misssy must get petrol. She decides she will get it on other side of town. She will run on fumes ‘til then. Prays to Ganesh for assistance in this.
3.30pm: Indy is now out of school and heading home to empty Misssyless house. “Mum is really fucking up today,” he thinks, except that boy would never swear.
Misssy is heading toward petrol station unaware that in her haste this morning she has left her purse on the hall stairs. She’ll just have to go on fumes back home 7 miles way. Prays to Buddha for assistance in this.
3.45pm: Grabs Indy from front garden barely stopping car. Hands him toothbrush (Yes, she remembers toothbrush but not purse. What is that about?). Phones Meeester illegally on mobile whilst driving. “Dentist 4.30pm, right?”
Apparently not. It’s at 4pm. No time to go to petrol station. Will get to town where dentist is (and where sister looking after Junior also is) 8 miles away on fumes. Prays to Jesus for assistance in this.
3.55pm. Dentist town visible on horizon. Car says, “Phut!” Lurch! “Phut!” Lurch. Misssy takes car out of gear and coasts hoping that no car in front will turn off necessitating her to brake and lose valuable momentum. Prays to Mohammed for assistance in this.
Indy is looking at Mum with absolute delight. He has stopped hating her for the morning’s trauma, and now worships her as a superhero.
3.57pm: Car dies on edge of town. Misssy prays to Father Son and Holy Ghost as she turns ignition and the car manages to locate molecule of fuel from somewhere and starts. She coasts into town, past lots of parked cars. Silver Audi waits ahead for her to pass so that he can then go past said cars in opposite direction. Car dies half way past parked cars. Audi bastard helpfully starts sounding horn. Misssy loses it:
“Yes, you utter bastard I’ve just stopped here because I fancied it. I’m stuck here because I thought it would be a bit of a laugh! Arggghghghghghghgh!”, she shouts.
Misssy prays to flipping L Ron Hubbard and his alien monster guys for assistance as she turns the ignition once more. L-Ron comes through and the car sputters into life. Audi bastard cheerfully sounds horn once more as Misssy goes lurching past, obviously to cheer her good fortune and not because he is a stupid ignorant fuck wit.
Indy runs out of car and shouts, “I’ll run to dentist. You get Jnr”. Bless him, he’s back on side.
End of day: Misssy and kids come home after Meeester M rescues them. Misssy flakes out on sofa and writes shite blog about her shite day. Nobody can be arsed reading about her shite day as they’ve troubles of their own. Misssy goes to bed exhausted, unread and on the verge of nervous collapse, just to do it all again tomorrow.
Yesterday: Scenario Two
8am: Meeester M says goodbye on way out. Misssy wakes, showers, gets kids up.
8.15am: Kids dress and eat breakfast.
8.45am: Misssy takes kids to school. It’s a beautiful day. “I love you, Mum,” says Indy as he waves her goodbye at the school gate.
9am: Misssy packs her things ready for her meeting. “Must remember to put petrol in car.”
9.15am: Misssy has phone meeting with Project Manager.
11.10am: Misssy collects Jnr from nursery and, smiling, delivers her to Auntie. Her hair looks great as she’s had plenty of time to style it. The sunlight catches her highlights as she heads back to her car.
11.45am: Misssy heads into town.
12.15am: Misssy stops off to buy petrol.
12.45pm: Misssy arrives at office and is given message to phone Project Manager
1pm: Misssy has meeting with client. Everything makes sense.
3pm: Misssy heads home
3.20pm: Misssy picks up Indy, checks on dental appointment time with husband.
4pm: Misssy successfully delivers children to dentist. Whilst chilling in waiting room she comes up with magic idea for a blog.
6pm: Kids out in garden. Meeester is cutting grass. Misssy writes amazing blog.
9pm: Blog is so great that word spreads of its brilliance and an unprecedented amount of people read it.
Week later: Misssy is asked to expand blog further in the form of a book by top publishing house.
Months later: Book sells millions
Next year: Misssy retires to South of France where she does nothing ever again for the rest of her life except drink cocktails, buy frocks and lounge about.
Which one do you think happened?
The Good the bad and The Queen
The Flying Martinis are back on Scottish soil. The Thai party’s over and we must return to our normal lives.
Despite the fact that I’ve been posting up the last of my Thai blogs over the last few days (There’s still one last one to come- but I can’t post it now for reasons too boring to relate- it’ll be up later tonight) we have actually been back since Sunday night.
In that time I’ve realised that nothing of note has happened in the UK during our absence. On the flight from Dubai to Glasgow, the cabin crew doled out copies of the Saturday Glasgow Herald and I knew that it had been a slow news week when the front page headline was about Wayne Rooney’s “better half” (could you find a worse half? She’d have to be an Ork) Coleen stunning the nation by NOT wearing a hat on Ladies Day at Ascot. Sweet Jesus, will the madness never end?
Things hotted up slightly on reaching Glasgow and Sunday papers which of course had the earth shattering news that like his old man, Oor Wullie, our next King but one, was going to hang about a bit (read shag a few more well bred fillies) before marrying some fertility tested Sloaney breeding machine. This place has gone to the dogs! (Corgis, perhaps?)
Of course, all events and real news have been scrapped for the Scottish Parliament election coverage. Maybe this time next year we’ll be an independent nation, who knows? It’s certainly looking like it could happen. I think a lot of Scots are thinking they’d rather have their taxes spent at home than on an illegal war in Iraq and that we could probably benefit from being freed from the clutches of the US. Since the UK government doesn’t seem to want to distance themselves from Mr Bush’s crackpot foreign policies, then maybe at least the Scots have a way out the back door.
Now, I know that a lot of folk don’t want to lose our ties with the Royal Family. I’m not one of them, but I understand that many people have a lot of affection for the inbred bunch of disfunctionals. Even now that the best ones are dying off. So I am hereby offering up my Family as candidates for the Scottish Royal Family. I think we’ve got all the ingredients you’d expect.
Take my Gran- she’d be a great Queen Mum. She is just like Viz comic’s Mrs Brady, Old Lady, but more offensive. She also looks great in lilac and is despite some recent health scares refuses to leave this mortal coil- so she’s definately a candidate for reaching the big 100. I’m sure she’s also choked on the odd fish bone, as HRH used to do regularly just to keep us on our toes.
My Dad upsets groups of people regularly, just like Prince Philip. He’d never be out of the papers. He’s not been as bad as to call people “slitty eyed” like old racist Phil did that time in China, but he did once upset all local golfers when introduced to the chairman of the local golf club, he said something along the lines of “And I thought all golfers were queer…”. He has also in the past told a Stevie Wonder joke to a blind man. He’s perfect for the job.
My mum thinks she’s in charge of everyone anyway so she’s perfect for Queen. And she’s had the same hairstyle her whole life- just like Liz.
My brother is the Prince Andrew type international playboy. STILL not married! At 36! Just ask my gran- it’s all she talks about.
Where does leave that me,and the Flying Martinis? Oh, we just want to be those peripheral royals that get a wad of cash for doing not much of anything, that get the kudos, privelege and use of the country houses but no-one really knows how they get away with it.
We’ve all got our own green wellies and headscarves so we’re good to go.
Give it some thought and get back to me.
Ps: One more Thai blog to go up- sorry for messing with your heads. It’ll be up later.
