Yes, that's right, hot from the postman's mail delivery bag came this wonderful device, ordered especially in from my homeland. I am having it installed in my boudoir. My metered reading on the above device is usually -20 (except at periods of stress, such as those recently described in the treacherous Olive Oil Incident, when it goes positively off the scale).
I try to keep myself calm by listening to something soothing, such as Maria Callas, Brahms, or Killer Swarm of Death, an unsung Norwegian death metal band, now sadly disbanded due to their rampant Satanism and wonderful stage acts involving a boa constrictor, a cement mixer and a cream egg.
On the subject of cream eggs, I had never before heard of these chocolates. Being American, we just don't have them over the Pond. For the uninitiated, cream eggs are little oval-shaped bon-bons, labelled to contain a calorie intake of 5,000,000g of fat and sugar; they are a national past-time in the United Kingdom, everyone eats them, usually twelve in one go, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They aid digestion and are incredibly good for the complexion. Really, I find British eating habits marvellous. I'm rather against tipping, per se, so when I'm being chauffeured around, and when some holds a door open for me or gives me impeccable service, I don't tip with money, I tip with a cream egg. I know it is always appreciated and is helping to keep England a nation of fatties; after all, there's only one nation fatter than the English and that's the Welsh, although I know they won't be offended at reading this, as they don't actually read/speak English but some other language, called - I believe - Mandarin.
It has been a busy day at Fanny Towers. Just as I was sitting down to a wonderful gastonomic experience of beetroot soup, hand-dived scallops, followed by Deep Fried Mars Bar Surprise with foie gras (apparently a Scottish delicacy), the gatehouse telephoned me to advise a Special Delivery had arrived. It is unusual to receive such deliveries at this hour, so I was all the more startled.
There were several large boxes and the accompanying letter bore the name East Lincolnshire Art & Antiques Store, claiming to be sending me a dealer of objet d'art.
When it was all unwrapped, it turned out not to be objet d'art at all, but some furniture, sent from a meddlesome collector who is clearly trying to woo me.
The above looks like a dragon chair or something from a children's fairytale. Apparently made in the 1950s and something of an antique, in certain circles. Not sure what the long teeth-like things are, possibly something to do with Lady Gaga; looks cheap. I will probably donate this to my local dentist surgery, since it is the type of piece that surely comforts the worried, dentist-phobic patient.
And this seems to be a chair made from meat from a German designer. Looks like a dime-a-dozen set, knocked out in their hundreds, sold for pennies. I think I'm sending this one to the South Wiltshire Vegetarian Society. I noticed they were appealing for bits of office furniture, as they've newly set up offices in Tisbury, and are on a limited budget. I am sure they'll love it.
The above black-and-white affair is supposed to be an Erotic Animal Print Chair with Marilyn Manson's legs. Sorry, I mean Marilyn Munroe's legs. Slight difference. Not sure where this should go in my house. Maybe at the bottom of the lake in the grounds.
And as for this, a walnut-wood tart's derrière, polished to a high shine, apparently by a Brazilian designer, it's a little bit reserved for my taste. I think I'll donate it to the church. It looks the type of rudimentary stand-alone that would look wonderful in the church vestibule. They could use it to stack hymn books on and I'm sure that it would be a conversation piece every Sunday morning worship.
A gracious thank you to East Lincolnshire Art & Antiques Store. Like going to a cheap hairdresser, cheap and nasty furniture will only leave you looking ridiculous.
