The misadventures of my Press Secretary

Such has been the demand for public appearances, after dinner speeches, and bar mitvazhs since word got round that I've moved to the area, I've had to appoint a Press Secretary -- or as she calls herself, a Press Attaché; my letterbox has been snowed under with urgent and heartfelt requests for my attendance at a variety of events, everything from a tawdry invite to cut the ribbon on a new Lidl in Hemel Hempstead, to a request from the Royal Household to partake in a pheasant finger-buffet with Prince Charles and the opportunity to give a little operatic rendition afterwards (both subsequently declined).

My Press Secretary is a local woman, called Miss Roberta Jones, who is responsible for sorting the wheat from the chaff: she is the gate-keeper to all requests for my attendance in public.  

A very solid woman.  Very severe.  And formal, too.  Teetotal, I believe.  And God-fearing.   A very strange fish if you ask me.

Her CV was dismally unimpressive: she'd managed a pig farm for a number of years, was a classical pianist, once trained as a shot-putter, and now keeps rare black orchids at the rented 1950s bungalow she lives in down the lane.

The one invaluable trait I look for in all my staff is their willingness to do anything on my behalf.  And so it was, on the ill-fated day I decided to hire her, she said "I'll do almost anything for you".    

Almost.  Such a small, annoying word, lacking any magisterial presence.  Its inclusion in that particular sentence piqued me greatly.

At first, I was quite happy to dismiss all her other foibles: she completely snubs modern technology, insisting all her communications are typed on a 1920s typewriter and signed using a quill pen; she smokes a pipe at her desk; she reads the daily newspaper and when she comes across an article that she doesn't like, she cuts it out with scissors and feeds it into the paper shredder with a look of outright disgust.

Modern technology has sadly passed by Miss Jones:
a technophobe's dream, this 1920s typewriter is her instrument of choice.
She bashes out many rejection slips, with no small amount of glee and often
insulting the recipient in the most creative ways with her bizarre use of the English language

Aside from her desk, chair, lamp, typewriter, quill and industrial shredder, the only other object in the room is a large water-cooler, which she drinks from every 5 minutes, without fail.  She does not use a cup, stating she is "OCD about germs", preferring to suck the water straight from the spout, which she often inspects with a magnifying glass to verify its cleanliness.

By formal memorandum, she informed me that I was due to open a Womens' Institute hall in a nearby village, that very evening.  Naturally, this is not the usual calibre of opening that I agree to, but on this occasion I had been informed that the media would be in attendance and it would raise my profile if I were to do the unveiling since a high-ranking MP would also be present; apparently, I was their first choice of celebrity, with some Z-list celebrity from Neighbours as their runner-up. 

The Womens' Institute - Fanny had been

asked to open this new, exciting building, but she just couldn't be bothered
when she unexpectedly had a better offer that same afternoon.

Unfortunately, the fly in the ointment occurred that same afternoon when, out of the blue, I received a phone call from a playboy millionaire saying he was jetting into London and wanted to take me out for dinner and drinks.  

Could I refuse?  

Was it him or the WI opening?  

Eating caviar off his defined torso? Or tea and biscuits with a village hall-full of myopic octogenerians and a media-hungry MP?

Fanny normally adores meeting the elderly at Womens' Institute groups,
such as this leathery, chain-smoking, old timer.
But on this occasion, she opted instead to be 40 miles away,
being wined and dined by her mysterious lover.  

 
I hatched a plan, there and then, to get Miss Jones, my Press Secretary, to attend the WI opening, under cover of disguise, whilst I danced the night away with Mr Toyboy.  I know she'd never agree to it, without a little - a'hem - Swedish courage.  (Or is the expression 'Dutch courage'?)

 

The first thing I did was pour three bottles of Absolut vodka (distilled in Sweden) into her water cooler, whilst she was in the West Wing on an errand.  I blended the vodka together with some of the remaining water in the cooler, hopefully watering down the taste, so as not to arouse her suspicions.  Vodka being as clear as water, she certainly wouldn't see any change to the water-cooler.

I guessed that it would only take about half an hour of her sipping from the water-cooler for the vodka to have the desired effect. 

When I came back later, she was swaying at her desk, her eyes bloodshot and dilated, and singing a filthy sailor's song in a strong Glaswegian accent at the top of her voice, a side of her I'd hitherto never seen nor imagined existed.  There are, of course, versions of drunkenness and I had overestimated quite how susceptible she was; I had intended to get her slightly tipsy, not as pissed as a coot (another polite English euphemism is to say someone is completely twatted).


Time was running short so I had to leave instructions with Juan:

"Get her something to wear that disguises her.  Something elegant. Something I would actually wear.  The paparrazi will be there.  They're expecting me to outdo Lady Gaga again in the dress department.  Whichever outfit you chose, it must have a mask or a hood or veil or a large hat, so she can do the opening without them knowing it's not actually me stood in front of them.  My fans know I often wear a mask when I'm shy.  Introduce her as Fanny Love and just get her to cut the ribbon.  Hold her up if you have to.  As soon as she's done the deed, get her back here and sobered up".

It was a daring plan that had been hatched.  I took a long, hot bath with a relaxing lemon sorbet bath bomb, then painted my nails and went out to dinner, dressed like a slut with a clean conscience. 

It was half-way through dinner with my millionaire toyboy that I received the shock of my life.  

Someone had set my phone's ring-tone to play 'Jim'll Fix It For You' and so you can imagine my embarrassment and disgust when the whole restaurant went silent as the ring-tone went off, signalling an incoming SMS.  

But that was not the half of it, no.  The very worst was yet to come.

A picture SMS arrived from Juan, who was at the Womens' Institute Opening with Miss Jones, who was pretending to be me.

In the cold light of morning, the flaw in the plan was Miss Jones's size.
By the looks of it, she's an XL, whilst I'm a catwalk Size S (UK 10; EU38).

In terrible shock, I spat my Chateaubriand steak across the room (a large chunk of it momentarily dazing a passing waiter) and stood so suddenly, I accidentally knocked the entire dining table on its side, sending bottles of champagne and antique china smashing to the floor.  I don't remember much else, only coming round some hours later in the back of an ambulance, whilst handcuffed.  

I have since discovered that the frontpage of this morning's gutter press reads "Drunken Fanny Love dressed as Dalek at Charity Event".