Fiji, Darlings.

The only thing to do when you're surrounded by negativity is to drop everything and go somewhere tropical, ideally on someone else's dime. 

I could post a million photos -- photos of how I interacted condescendingly but lovingly with the locals, how imperiously and without thought we donned sacred ceremonial headdresses for an amusing drunken romp on the beach, photos of Fi's truly unfortunate-looking boyfriend with the male-pattern baldness and the paunch but the magnificent bank account.

Instead, I'll leave you with minimalism.  This is really all you need to know, and all I'm really anxious to show you anyway.  Tell me how gorgeous it is. 

Back home this week, more's the pity.  Tarquin's going to dump Fiona because she won't dress up "like a native woman" or something, so I'm sure there will be lots of drunken evenings to clean up and lots of scary men to shoo out the door. 

Ta!
J.
 

Tales From the Trenches

Oh, darlings, I've missed you.  You have no idea.  Life is so terribly hard when people throw themselves and free things at you.  It's so difficult being this discerning.  But I do try. 


This is my demure face.

 Recently, you may have heard through the gossip mill that I've been to Cornwall.  I do love Cornwall.  Where else can you frolic like children on a beach in your £400 wellies, and two hours later show off your impeccable figure in a string bikini?  That is, as long as you're willing to accept the outrageous a la carte prices for such things. 

Look, truly, I am simply fabulous.  Do not get snippy with me simply because your hair is decidedly less-than, or because you cannot afford the best Brazilian cocaine, or because you have an actual drudgey job as opposed to something delightfully nebulous like 'web consultant.'  I cannot help it if generally speaking I just have things fall into my lap like glorious, perfectly-groomed dogs.

What I do find utterly unspeakable is when I'm invited to a hotel that looks delicious and find the accommodations -- well, rather like the equivalent of a shoddy blowout.  This is not to say that the proletariat might not find the place squeakingly upmarket; I'm only saying there are standards, cupcake, and if you live your life by a different set, it is hardly my problem. 

I do implore you, dear readers, to take opinions from the internet as -- well, opinions from the internet.  Should you suddenly require me to have things like journalistic objectivity, I should think this would become the most stodgy, dreary page on the planet.  Much like I presume that Liberty person's site must be.

When I write about somewhere I've been, it's me writing about somewhere I've been, you silly bourgeois sods.  And while I quite naturally assume my readers are universally staying at filthy little Travelodges the world over, you must understand that when I vacation, it is with the assumption that I will be informed of any additional charges prior to their incurrance.



Oh, dear God.  This Travelodge is like something out of a prison movie.  You poor sodding bastards.

 (And also the assumption that the night's catch won't cause me to spend the evening vomiting up everything I've ever eaten.  I did manage to lose a kilo, however, and am rather surprised I wasn't charged for the spoiled seafood as a spa service.)

In short, if you'd like to stay in Cornwall and lose some pesky weight, this may be right in your wheelhouse. 

If you'd like me to be more objective, or suddenly to begin revealing all my secrets, well, then, you haven't been reading carefully enough.  You don't get to know these things, you whiny little meat pasties.

Ta,
Jonquil.

Total Shite; or, How to Effect a Cleanse With Grace

Darlings, when you spend as much time as I do simply indulging yourself in all manner of hedonistic/fetishistic endeavors, eventually it does catch up to you.  At some point, there is within you a buildup of toxins that nothing can cure.

At those times, I turn to an old friend.

Gwyneth Paltrow.

No, honestly, I'm taking the piss.  I'd never turn to her for anything, not since I was at a party at Camilla Tamblin-Gogginsworth's and had Gwyneth Paltrow quite bold-facedly tell me something was "bollocks."

So let's leave Gwyneth to her piss-poor excuses for cleanses, shall we?

This cleanse of mine will have you sparkling new again in a matter of days, peasants, guaranteed. 

Ingredients:

Condensed essence of oat bran, 2 cups

7 ounces pharmaceutical-grade Brazilian cocaine

Raw kale, 2 bunches

Syrup of ipecac, three drops

4 packets Normacol Plus laxative

Orange juice, for taste

Mix all ingredients in the blender.  Pour into a chilled glass, and garnish with mint.  You should really wait to drink this until you're sitting down, comfortably, in dark-colored clothing on top of a rubber sheet no more than four steps from the loo. 

At first it will seem awful; but you will learn to love that desperate, ominous rumble and the giddy the-world-is-fucking-ending adrenaline simply pouring through your veins. 

If you can get out of the ladies' in the next three days, you will find you are several pounds lighter, several sizes smaller, and possibly a bit pruny from the severe dehydration.  Sip some water and slip into something fabulous, darling; you are ready to hit the streets for some eggs and streaky bacon.  And remember, it's not a diet.  I call it the Un-Diet.  It's a lifestyle.  Embrace the horror.

Love,
Jonquil

Happy New Year, Darlings!

Oh, I've so much to cover.  It has been a whirlwind of gin and tinsel, my lovely peasants, and I'm only now beginning to sober up. 

Naturally, I spent the hols at home, with Mum and Dad.  It's so quaint to cuddle up next to the homey old Christmas tree.



Isn't it too sweet?  This is the informal family room.

 Christmas at our house is low-key, we just exchange little things and enjoy each others' company.  This was my haul this year:

Then we all played drinking games and tried not to notice when Fi hit on my brother, my mum's friend's son, and my father, respectively, as she became more and more inebriated.  I may or may not have overheard her propositioning the chef who made the bourgeois mashed potato and parsnip dish.

New Years was lovely.  I'm SO not a party girl on New Years, so I decided to keep it low-key.  You know, darlings, like staying in and watching Love, Actually on the telly.  Or, rather, squeezing myself into one giant smacker of a bandage dress, hiking up the old girls, and partying all night long at a nightclub.  Low-key.

The next day, inbetween calling the local constabulary to rid my apartment of Fiona's gentleman caller from the night before and emptying said gentleman's pockets of my watch, wallet, and two serving spoons from Granny's silver chest, I spent some time thinking about the past year.  Do you do this?  Reflect on the year past as a way of staving off that insatiable nausea/hunger that happens after you've drunk four bottles of champagne the night before?

And really, 2012 was a delightful year.  It began so terribly, with the dissolution of an unspeakable relationship.  Never, ever date a reality television star, peasants.  Truly, I should have listened when Niles informed me that Spencer Matthews looked like a Hobbit, even if Niles was simply jealous. 

I remember Mum pulling me aside one night last March, when I was feeling especially bereft.  She brought me into the keeping room and sat me down on the expansive leather divan.  And in front of the fire, she affectionately tucked my hair behind my ear and gently said, "Jonquil, my love, stop being such a goddamned cock-up, you're depressing my houseguests."

It was truly then that I knew things had to change.  I mean, aside from my living arrangements; Mum kicked me straight out that night until I learned to be more cheery.

So I packed my bags and traveled the world.  Spencer called in mid-May, and I told him to sod off and called him a foul-chested, stumpy wanker.  I found solace and ultimate heartbreak in the arms of Cousin Niles, in whom I had confided the previous Christmas and who proved to be a most ardent comforter.

In short, 2012 began in shambles, and ended, as things always do for me, in glittering, brilliant perfection.  I'm like a miniseries, darlings; the road may be long, the cast may be B-rated -- but in the end, I'm purely untouchable.  And nothing stops me from having lovely hair.

Happy 2013, my little rustics.  I adore each and every one of you, even if you are rather dirty and unkempt.

              Love,
              Jonquil

               P.S.  And darling, especially you -- do not ever doubt your
                       muchness, regardless of what your mother says.

Horton Hears a Who

Darlings, holiday shopping is simply my favorite.  There is simply no better photo opportunity than in a store full of expensive things.  And you can write about them on your blog and call them "cute" and encourage everybody to buy them, while you quietly giggle over your tea and imagine them reading the prices.

This lovely diary is perfect for everyone on your list!  Available here.  

 

I bought forty for all my friends.

I simply adore all the quiet, tiny boutiques I find.  Naturally, they're all terribly exclusive, and the prices drive away the unwashed masses, so I feel right at home.  Occasionally tourists wander in, but the salesgirls are usually very good at withering glances.  Don't you just love the peace and goodwill of the holidays? 

Now, I really need a pick-me-up.  The mania of this morning's pill has worn off.  I'm going to rest here until Spencer Haughtingsley-Pickton can come bring me some Christmas snow. 

Cheers, darlings.

 

Holiday Party!

Last night Fiona's new boyfriend Paisley hosted a little do at his flat for all of our friends.  He was really trying to butter up Fi so she'd forget about that whole unfortunate buggering-the-stable-boy incident.  I don't think it worked, but the party was super fun. 

Pais has a terrible flat, and by terrible I mean of course fabulous.  It's simply stuffed with horrifying art, the focal point being a giant, big-headed portrait of his former girlfriend, Millicent Maitland-Clottingsley.  Fi is not happy about the piece, but it is apparently Important Art by an Important Artist, and so she allows it because it makes Paisley seem as if he's cultured and aware instead of simply being pissed all the time and snorting coke in loos.

 

Poor Milly.  Truly.  Poor, poor Milly.  Just look at those absolutely immense thighs.

Naturally, Sinjun was there in purple socks and red trousers, which I might have taken the piss about except that I was wearing leggings as trousers and as such endured lots of camel jokes all night long. 

And Sinjun's mum showed up in a red silky blouse and did a dance on the reclaimed refectory table and broke a seventeenth-century snuffbox, and Paisley went into a snit about it because it held a gramme of coke and so we all spent a few minutes under the table like bloodhounds snorting it off the floor. 

Truly, a grand party.  I hope you've had as many joyous times!  I do love the holidays.

XXOO

J

 

Holiday Style

I WAS going to make this about things you people could afford to buy, but that is just SO tiresome, and I cannot possibly be bothered to look things up on sites like ASOS, and look, I KNOW the Duchess shops at Zara, but clearly she is utterly insane.

So I thought I would instead just show you what I plan to wear to a little holiday do coming up in the next few weeks.  My clothes are far superior to yours, anyhow.

This look I call "Pimms With A Dash of GHB."

Dress, alice + olivia, available here , £621

Happy holidays, my poor little foundlings.