Spiker stilettos

Just popped out for a dog walk, wearing these new stilettos, whilst the other dog walkers I saw were wearing plain old Wellington Boots.

Aren't they a delight?

 

Quelle horreur!

A man tapped on the window of my limousine to ask if he could have my autograph.  "Where shall I sign?" I said, batting my eyelids in false modesty and hungrily licking my lips.  I'm such a fame-whore, I love all the attention!  I was waiting for him to hand me an autograph book, or better still, to expose a part of his body for me to sign with my gold fountain pen stolen from the stationery counter at Harrods.  I love it when a young man wants my signature on his thigh, or better still, his groin or even further south.  However, he just shrugged and handed me an empty packet of pork scratchings.  Imagine that!  It felt like a slap round the face to be asked to sign my autograph on an packet of pork scratchings.

The consumption of pork scratchings is a bizarre British trait which I've never fully understood or appreciated: in certain quarters, they're consumed in large quantities. They consist of hairy bits of pig-rind, slick with fat; sometimes they're hard and could crack your teeth.  Every corner shop and every pub sells them and they're loaded with nutrients (100,000 calories per bite).  I shudder at the thought of having to eat one.  The smell reminds me of Belladonna.

Butler replaced

My trusty, old-fashioned butler, Archibald - hard of hearing; heavy smoker's hacking cough; always wears Dame Edna Everage spectacles - is normally impeccably turned out in his 1920s black-and-white tuxedo.  He's a God-send.  He has been with me since 1981.  He's of the old school, you see, and knows his vintage of wine with exactitude, knows how to serve devilled kidneys with tiny French silver forks, knows about Rita Hayworth, and knows how to shake a creme de menthe frappé in no time.  But imagine when your once-respectable butler suddenly starts stripping off and waltzes across your formal lawn dressed in a dazzling-white, tiny posing pouch...

 That's not a banana.

It's not that I mind his rampant voyerism, it's just that it might upset the neighbours!   I do feel that Archibald might be better off retiring to a bungalow in Saltdean, not far from Brighton's gay beach.   With that thought in mind, after almost 35 years of service, I made the decision to offer Archibald retirement today.  He gets a £300,000 bungalow in Saltdean, paid by moi, and a pension of £30,000 per annum.  He did thank me enormously and invite me to visit him in Saltdean, which I might well do.

No sooner had he departed for the Costa Geriatrica, then I had appointed my new butler.  He doesn't know a thing about wine, art or etiquette, in fact he doesn't even know how to boil an egg and he doesn't speak a word of English, but I do think he makes an ideal replacement.

 Fanny is very much looking forward to licking caviar off that six-pack

A dog's day

Here at Raffles, I share my life with two dogs: Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher and Mr P, my boisterous poodle.  Brenda used to jump on the chaise-longue, roll on her back and piss in Belladonna the Maid's face and was rewarded for doing so with copious amounts of Bonio's.  Mr P is short for Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (Fanny likes a mouthful!).  Mr P likes his cuddles and walks in the rain.  

In this photo taken yesterday, you can see that Mr P stands incredibly still sometimes, so still that it's possible to put down a wine glass and wine bottle for a while.  He doesn't mind a bit.  When I come back, not a drop of wine has been spilt!

Today, it dawned on me that it was high time I got Mr P taken to the dog grooming parlour - his tresses were unruly, he is long overdue for a haircut.

 Mr P was very unhappy about having to sit next to that bitch.

"What is it you'd like done for him?" said the dog grooming parlour assistant.  

"Surprise me!" I said, before leaving the parlour to head off to my favourite high-class department store, Poundland.

Imagine my orgasmic delight when I returned to the dog parlour two hours later to pick up Mr P and found a transformed pooch. 

Here he is, in all his glory....

I am so amazed by his transformation from a white fluff-ball to a work of art, I have walked him round the village (I, myself, was naked at the time, but for an umbrella) to show off his beautiful plumage.

Reading material for yet another rainy day

Quite bored by now out of my tiny little skull, I selected this great-named book from the Library.  It's a delightful tome, I love the chapters "How To Eat With Your Pussy", "So you've Got a Fat Pussy", "Nursing a Sick Pussy" and of course "Exercising Your Pussy".  

Rainy day reading

I'd rather be out dogging this afternoon in my new French Maid outfit which arrived this morning in the post, but I'm stuck inside due to inclement weather.  So I had a rummage through the Library and came across this book.  What a delightful read, this classical handbook always gets my juices flowing....

Looks like someone else enjoyed this book:
I had to use a letter-opener as some of the pages were stuck together!

What type of 'girl' are you?

 

This photo is pinned to my dressing-room wall.  I regularly measure the length of my skirt, just to see which category I fall into.   I love going out dressed as a slut, in a bright, pink mini-skirt that is actually more of a belt, fluffy cow-girl boots and plenty of bling.

Let's just say I'm OCD about skirt length... but how little is too little?  What's the difference between 'cheeky' and an 'all-out slut'? 

The answer, my dears, is about three-and-a-half inches of fabric.

On a recent visit to London, here is a photograph of moi wearing a more conservative outfit, at the top of an escalator.