I’m reading a cracking good book at the moment, called The Letters of Nancy Mitford & Evelyn Waugh, edited by Charlotte Mosley. Each communication requires at least ½ a page of footnotes in explanation of every Baron, Lord, Hon and Marquess one seemed to come across in those days. There’s enough anti-French, anti-American and pro aristocracy stuff to keep everyone satisfied.
Here’s a picture of my favourite Mitford, and one of Waugh (looking like the miserable old sod he portrays in his letters):
Some of their letters make me snort loudly and violently on the train, and I haven’t a soul to share them with. So I thought I’d do a rundown of my weekend, in the style of their letters. Shoot me now etc etc.
After a month of feverish writing, I crashed in a heap on the weekend. All Saturday spent tripping around darling little boutiques in the city, indulging in excess to my heart’s content. Had literally three shop assistants clamouring around me in one shop for two hours. They were so young, smooth-faced and eager to please I could scarce look at them without crying.
I bought a wonderful black garment, rather like a monk’s cassock. Although loose-fitting, I think it becomes me with my new slacks and ‘Russian Red’ lipstick.
I discovered it’s simply impossible to source a Mason & Pearson hairbrush these days, please advise. Priceline is vague on the subject.
Arrived home to apply cold compresses etc, only to receive a call from a very old friend, recently arrived from Los Angeles. We had a wonderful catch up on the latest from Hollywood, including several travel pilots, people who network in hot tubs, a Television script, numerous minor celebrities and a thrilling project involving not one but both Duff sisters. My friend was ‘asked to move’ after a few hours at the wrap party, where Hillary was relaxing with a rather odious tattooed fellow. I was able to display higher reading of the Jour de Femme to reveal they are no longer together.
Hayley arrived toute seule.
While fleeing & snorting up King St, I passed a nightclub spewing forth its patrons, including a group of those gelled, shiny bursting young cads normally found South of the Yarra. As I passed, one remarked ‘That girl is HOT’.
How I shrieked.
Sunday blissikins and heavenly in the extreme.
Slept in until 11 (this should be a must for Lady writers) then pancakes with stewed figs, strawberries and banana.
Vindaloo curry in the blissful backyard with a wonderful book. G&T.
Later went figging in the back alleyways of Brunswick, picked a bumper crop with some huge purplish ones and a busy horde of insects.
Finished up horizontal in front of the worst shows I’ve seen in ages: Ugly Betty and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. The latter written by someone who had not only NOT read either book, but hadn’t even glanced at the blurb on the back page. Flew into a violent rage at the world and consoled myself with Nurofen and Father O’Leary’s Velvet Cream.
Ralph Fiennes’ air hostess is reportedly enciente. Further unnecessary particulars revealed ‘arms and legs everywhere’.
3MBS living up to expectations with ‘Greensleeves’ on high rotation.
With much love,