Several Small Things

I'll do this in list form, so you peasants can keep up.  Do try to comprehend what I say.  Part of the reason I no longer hang out with old Fi is 1, she kept insisting she wasn't watching what she ate, which, chuh; but also 2, she'd been stuck on level 23 of Candy Crush for like a week.  Level 23.  Darlings, I barely got through university, but even I'm on level 145. 

1.  I've had a few questions about why, when I recommend products to you peasants, I don't use affiliate links.  

     a.  They require you to post a certain amount per week or something, which, sod off, sponsors; don't tell me what to do.  and also, 

     b.  affiliate links are for the poor.  I don't request a commission every time someone buys a goddamn jumper from M&S because I don't need your meager coinage.  If you'd really like to do something for me, come see me when I'm out at the Box and buy me a whisky.  I'd go to Boujis but Fi's gross old boyfriend is the business manager or some such nonsense and they've barred me for life. 

2.  I plan to do a style post at some point in the future, but I'm running my ideas past my housekeeper to make sure I post things normal people can afford.  In a rare show of affection for you.  

3.  I may start an Instagram account at some point this year, but the plain truth is that the people I hang out with are far too good for you and sometimes like to be shielded from the prying eyes of the proletariat.  If you want to know what our lives are like, truly, I suggest you go view Rich Kids of Instagram, add about five years, and take away some of the bling because we're far classier than that. 

So terribly gauche, darling.  Though I do own most of these pieces.

4.  And lastly, if you want to turn your kitchen into the Swiss Alps, a recipe for macaroni and cheese won't do it, but six ounces of pharmaceutical "snow" certainly will.  You don't even have to misspell "envelop" to do it.  And you'll feel far more comforted without all those fucking calories. 

Added bonus:  Your old crone of a mother who unexpectedly shows up will think it's flour and  you
can laugh at her while high out of your mind as she tries to make cookies.

Ta, rustics.
J.

A Sojourn of Sorts

Once upon a time it was a Wednesday morning in London. 

Most of the city woke up and went to work, but there was one lovely, nubile young maiden who scoffed at such things.  “Fuck work,” she said petulantly, her perfectly-glossed lips pursing peevishly.  

Luckily, her wizened, old, wrinkled, hunched-over, Quasimodo, 25-year-old friend AJ was there to save the day. 

“Let’s go hiking, damsels!” he said brilliantly, brandishing hot mugs of tea and leaving me wondering just how in the blue blazes he managed to break into my flat.

And so we went. 

By “hiking,” of course, I mean we got all dressed up in appropriate hiking clothes and spent an hour at the bottom of a very small hill taking pictures that make my ass look good. 

Afterwards we spent a few hours at the Fox and Tassel pub drinking appletinis and eating kidneys on toast, and then had a lovely old afternoon photoshopping all the pictures inbetween threesomes with my newest best friend Victoria.  Who, aside from being far more attractive than old Fi, also brings to the table a large country house, two trust funds and remarkable double-jointedness.

TAKE THAT, FIONA.

Psst:

Only the poor are crazy, darlings.  The rest of us are just eccentric.  If you must make sport of the costume party I attended at the nuthouse, make fun of the hors d'oeurves, which were unspeakable; and my ex-friend Fi, who drank a Methuselah of Cristal and let Prince Harry's PR secretary do unmentionable things to her on top of the banquette.

 

I wore this as a costume, which allowed for all sorts of interesting access.

 

 

 

Look, some might find the whole thing in poor taste; but like I said, only the proletariat can be truly crazy.  We are above such things.  For example:  Mum.  Someone should have locked that old Bertha in an attic long ago, but as she's wealthy we simply smile and dump Valium into her Scotch.