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Wednesday, 24 September 2014

In which One considers an apology…

mitford

Yesterday, Debo, The Dowager Duchess of Devonshire died, aged 94.

With her died the Mitford sisters, so column-filling of the twenties onward. And so instrumental in the conviction that One had been secretly swapped at birth and denied the lavish lifestyle for which One hankered, and hankers still…

‘Whenever I see the words Peer’s Daughter in the newspaper my heart sinks,’ said their Mother, Lady Redesdale.

‘Twas Diana, the widow of Oswald Mosley, upon whom One attempted to model, without much success, Oneself.

Any road up, that glorious manner of speech, to include such words as ‘rind’ (round) and ‘hice’ (house) shall leave us forever…

But One has more pressing problems to attend to today than the sad demise of a world full of fine-boned debutantes all clamouring for the hand of a gentleman in possession of a sizeable fortune/stately home/title etc…

One has been told in no uncertain terms by Princess P that One requires a guest to interview on One’s radiogram programme tomorrow  AND One is to have said guest nailed by mid afternoon today in order that he can be included in the running order of the show.

Due to the fact that One is a complete eejit and went to choir practise last night, it is in fact tonight, intending to snare an unsuspecting vocalist, One is a guest-free zone…

Ah, One has it, Vile ex Husband…

Mmmm, or has One been too insulting to the onerous cove over the years on this blog to even go there?  Oh, what the ****

Prospective opening gambit…

‘You know how when I carried that great lummox son of yours around for nine long months my figure never got back to normal?

(note to A of the F – One doesn’t give a shit what Angelina Jolie’s arse looks like)

And no doubt you will recall my horror at espying the actual size of a frozen 12lb Christmas Turkey in Iceland and the thought of squeezing it out of my Twinkle?

And the way my ankles swelled up and never actually returned to the tiny little delights that snared you in the first place?

The long, long nights of actually feeding the ravenous monster MYSELF whilst you were pushing out the zeds in our pied a terre in Hampstead village.  (try as One might, One couldn’t secure a wet-nurse)

The never ending search for a suitable nanny was conducted by One, in order that One could lie down in a darkened room until Boy was nine.

All those visits to Oilily and Baby Gap weren’t a breeze you know!

Well, it’s payback time…

Get your scrawny, ne’er do well arse over to 10 Radio and tell all about your marvellous inventions…

‘Talking Translator, Routefinder, some thing that measures the velocity of bullets etc’

Or

Maybe One should just apologise/beg/say please?

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