Fanny went mad in March: I dressed as a rabbit, and hopped around the village.
I spent most of the month popping Valium like they were Smarties, and drinking a pint of medicinal sherry for breakfast, just to calm my frayed nerves.
I also lovingly made some Easter eggs, mixing together Marmite, Harold Shipman's fish paste and laxative chocolate (the Easter eggs were donated to the church out of the kindness of my heart). I baked some Bovril-flavoured macaroons and created a Chocca Mocca Caramel Cake but inadvertently ran out of cocoa so just used some Oxo cubes as a substitute. Following this, I made some rock cakes, although this seriously depleted the gravel from the drive. I don't know what the church thought of this range of eclectic culinary delights as I didn't hang around. No doubt their show of thanks to my remarkable generosity will be delivered in the usual form of a terse and smarmy platitude in the village newsletter, a publication inappropriately called Hermaphrodites edited by an effeminate, shrew-faced old man called Ernest Honeyball.
In addition, I turned my hand to making a 15-foot high marzipan tower-cake with 24 carat gold-leaf decorations; it took over 8 hours of slaving away in the kitchens to produce it, and this was also donated to the church. Here is a photograph of all my hard work. What do you think?
I deliberately chose the plastic pig-with-wings cake decoration on top, as an artistic flourish!
My little corner of Buckinghamshire has been hit by snow blizzards and temperatures so cold we had to chisel my little poodle, Mr P, off a lamp-post during his early morning walkies.
I had important meetings yesterday with my bank manager, lawyer and accountant, so I dressed in my best pin-stripe suit, ready to be chauffeured into town. Do you like my outfit? I'd opted for the primly sedate look, rather than the 'playgirl' look that most fans know me by.
As I was applying my electric-crimson mascara, I started to feel the sting of chapped lips, due to the bitter weather. In order to protect Fanny's lips - in the short walk between the door of my mansion and the limousine - I decided to give them some much-needed protection; after all, there's nothing more painful than cracked, chapped lips! So I waltzed upstairs to my West Wing bathroom and swung open the medicine cabinet to reach for the lip balm.
I don't know who the Hell was responsible for replenishing my medicine cabinet, but this was the last thing I expected to find in it --- Marmite-flavoured lip balm, what an abomination! Normally, I use the Regular flavour of Salveline, which, as you will see, was personally endorsed by none other than moi, and contains soothing Mongolian iguana fat:
I was in such a hurry I couldn't be bothered hunting around so I smeared a good greasy dollop (about the size of an apple) of Marmite-flavoured lip balm all over my Marilyn Monroe-shaped pouting lips and noisily sucked them into the shape of a rose-bud to ensure a liberal application.
Juan was honking the car's horn outside. I sharn't be licking my lips for a good few hours and I'm restricted to air-kissing. C'est la vie! Did I tell you that I had both my lips insured in case of accident to the sum of £50 million?
Just as I was heading for the door, I caught a glimpse of one of my freshly baked cakes, smothered in several jars of hundreds-and-thousands and couldn't resist taking a gigantic bite out of it.
And off I set.
Upon arriving at my lawyer's, I couldn't understand the sniggers from the receptionist or the bemused look on my lawyer's face. Throughout the hour-long meeting, he failed to reveal the source of his amusement. This incensed me, especially as I was about to sign a multi-million pound deal. As I left his office, disgusted, I heard debauched, hysterical laughter coming from the back office, sounding like the whole office.
It was only when I got back into the car that I took a look in my compact mirror, and realised the source of their amusement, with a tiny, whimper of shocked disbelief:
