Sunday, 15 February 2015

Signs of doom?

My chauffeur pulled up outside a certain London hang-out of high society.  No sooner had I trotted out onto the pavement in my 12-inch heels and stared up at the neon sign, then something struck me as being very wrong.  All thoughts of what I'd imagined to be a lavish occasion disintegrated like a puff of smoke.  Oh jeopardy lay within, my waters kept telling me. 

Deeply superstitious of dark forces at work, I got back in the Rolls and ordered Juan to pootle round the block and find somewhere more suitable for a lady of my standing, before the evening was well and truly scuppered.  He suggested the Angus Steak House.

But judging by the all-telling neon, all was not well here either. 

In the end, after 2 hours of prevarication, we drove to the only suitable place we could find -  McDonalds in East Barnet - where we had a 79p McFlurry sandwich and a pint of Coke, before ending up in this lounge, somewhere off gay Old Compton Street (no surprises there, given the name of the establishment and its location).  This time, I'm not complaining!

But, of course, it happened a fourth time, these dastardly subliminal messages being sent to me by ordinary neon signs! As we stopped for petrol just off the M40.... this apparition of things to come:  

On second thoughts, we were at the M40 services just outside Beaconsfield, which has, in certain quarters, been described as a mini-Hell on the edge of the Chiltern Hills.


  1. Darling Fanny,

    Reading between the neon lines........are you telling us that you did not, after all, go into The Ritz?!

    We have waited so long for this account.

    We have been part of every stage of the preparation. We have advised on hats, fascinators and all manner of headwear. We have sympathised about the destruction of the pearl necklace. We have tried our very best to boost what we know to be your very fragile self esteem. We have even offered to put a word in with the Barclays so that you could be assured of red carpet treatment, endlessly flowing champagne and the best table in the restaurant.

    And now, we read that you did not even step your high heeled shoe in the place!

    Naughty Fanny! You will have to be punished for leading us on.

    There will be tears before bedtime.........and those tears will not be ours!

  2. Yes, you are right... I'm a very naughty girl and need to be spanked with a tennis racquet. But by reverie of your own cultured words, I will return to the said establishment and see if the Promise of the Chosen Land lay within... overflowing goblets of champagne, red carpets and all the posh totty one could desire. That sounds very Ritz-y indeed! x

  3. To be all decked out and end up at McDonalds just isn't right. At least at the cock lounge someone may have enjoyed the work and time spent on what I'm sure, was a stunning ensemble.

  4. You ended up at the Pitz afterall.

    If you had gone to the Ritz as planned you would have seen my maid of all work there, with her nose pressed firmly against the window pane looking in, waiting patiently for her mistress to finish off her cream tea, a bit like Julie Andrews in Victor Victoria only fatter. I once took Carmen out for afternoon tea at Claridge's. I shan't bang on in details about it, suffice to say, she showed me up a treat, asking the waitress if she had any PG Tips and then cackling with laughter when the snooty waitress pronounced the breakfast tea as 'Break Fast ta' when the tea and scones arrived she said in a loud voice for all to hear 'Shal I tek yer Fho'oh'?