The Devil is in the Detail

The proverb "the Devil is in the Detail" is my favourite.  In high social circles, one can be harshly judged on small, precise, trifling details. 
 
So much so, I've taken a keen interest in the arrangements for today's VIP Summer Fête on the lawns of my country estate, Raffles, casting my eye even on the smallest decisions, such as which brand of silverware to lay out ("Christofle, of course, darling"), which wines to serve ("Châteauneuf-du-Pape is for French peasants.  Bring on the 2002 Romanee-Conti [priced at a mere £12,250 per bottle], buy the whole wine cellar if you have to, you passive, bitchy, old fem").  


Much to my horror, I'd discovered early on that Cook had been abusing the liquour cabinet, literally drinking my cellar dry of gin.  How did I know?  She started wearing the following garment.

 And her reading material was a clear sign of her unbalanced mind:

She's not been the same since her trip to the Far East.  She spent three weeks on a secluded island in Thailand before flying to Vietnam and then mainland China.  It seems to have turned her mind.  For example, she'd been planning to serve up a decidedly experimental hors d'oeuvre:

It's called Century Egg.   A Chinese duck or quail egg, preserved in a mixture of clay, ash, salt, lime and rice straw for several months, until the yolk becomes a dark green, gelatinous form with an odour of sulphur and ammonia.

Revolting.  Something no doubt the French would adore.

She should have added pig trotters, blood soup, warm scorpion mousse, roasted bat and deep-fried locust, whilst she was at it with her deviant ideas.   

Had she been allowed to serve Century Egg or any of the other abominations, my guests would have prayed for merciful death and my reputation for being the hostess with the mostest would have been in tatters.

She also spent a small fortune ordering in a gigantic ostrich egg so big it needed a tractor to transport it.  Quite what she planned to do with it is beyond me, clearly she was planning to feed the whole of the Home Counties with it.  It took three men to move it.  It's been rolled out of the front gate and is now sitting on the village green.

Even with known and celebrated British menus, she's been known to corrupt the most fool-proof recipes and serve up a dish bearing no resemblance whatsoever to its origin.  Once she flew off the handle and served what she called "a little Surprise pudding".  It was a plum pudding so tall and wide it required eight people to carry it in.  She'd gone for the alternative interpretation and added onions, garlic, tuna and artichokes, and then she'd laced it with every conceivable liquor available, not just stopping at rum, but also tequila, sambuca and absinthe.  

As a last considerate thought, she placed a couple of lit fireworks on the table beside it, just as she ignited the pudding. 

 

Damage caused to my banquet hall after Cook's diabolical Surprise Christmas Pudding, laced with enough alcohol to sink the Titanic and served with several lit fireworks. The whole thing exploded like a bomb going off, showering the Hall with millions of bits of molten suet and raisin, causing irrevocable structural damage - now you know why I moved to Buckinghamshire shortly afterwards. 

Sadly, Cook is now beginning psychiatric treatment at the nearest Secure Unit, and I've almost - thanks to Prozac and Xanax - moved on from her catastrophic culinary perversions.  The newly appointed Cook will be serving up classically English Beef Wellington: a square of filet steak coated with pâté de foie gras and duxelles, wrapped in puff pastry and baked, and served with truffles, mushrooms and Madeira wine.   And the only fireworks will be later in the evening, and set off outside.
 
I've had to hire new staff, since many of my original employees are still off sick with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following the Exploding Pudding Incident.  

The new staff were handpicked by moi, with a particular theme in mind.  As it's a banquet, you might have expected to see very formally-dressed staff, which is common all over the country.  

However, I don't follow tradition.

The height of decadence: many high-class eateries and hotels in Britain dress their waiting staff in stiff, very formal costume, as pictured above. This 5-star eatery, in the heart of London's trendy Mayfair, is the hangout of many A-list celebs. Note the 'luxury hand wash' in the top right of this photo.

I'm not interested in the faded glamour of yesteryear waiters and maître d'hôtel; there won't be any tuxedos, bow ties or stiff upper lips.   My butlers and waiters will be wearing something simple, understated and unique, something that will be talked about for years to come:

 
That's right.  They'll just be wearing the above garment and nothing else.  Some of them don't speak a word of English, but they're not here to engage in conversation.  Here are 'the Boys':

 

Which shoes?

I cannot decide which of the following shoes to wear for this weekend's Summer Fete/Film Celebration at my country estate.  

Which do you think?  And why?

Option 1:  Pink Chopin Shoes.  When I was a Playboy Bunnygirl, these were all the rage, I think I once saw a certain international male singer wearing a pair.  I occasionally wear these for long walks across London's Hampstead Heath, usually just before dusk when the setting sun sparkles on the rhinestones.

Option 2:  Spiker Shoes.  Made from African thornbush trees; I often wear these when I'm asked to open museums and libraries, as I feel it helps to create a lasting impression.

Option 3: The Country-Set Shoes: Very stylish brogues, a mere steal at $12,000 per pair.  I wear them when swimming.

Option 4:  Crystal Black Widow Stilettos - these are my all-time favourite.  Have been snapped by the paparazzi strolling along the streets of St Tropez wearing these spiffing high heels, actually made from clear, unbreakable crystal.  They give off a clacking sound on the cobbles like a fishwife's tongue clacking disapprovingly, but are so comfortable to wear.  The crystal case, forming the cap of the shoe, contains one or two live spiders;  there's a little battery-powered device I have in my handbag whilst wearing these and it's only necessary to press it once and a trapdoor in the shoes opens and releases the spiders.  

Option 5: These were a gift from an admirer.  I'm not really into branded footwear, and I understand that this design has become increasingly popular among young people in Wales, since a certain retailer has been selling them on a Buy One, Get One Free offer.  I sharn't be wearing them.

Option 6: African Safari Shoes - often worn when I'm out shopping.  Once I got a man in the street to throw down his coat over a puddle so I could pass without getting wet feet.  Chivalry is indeed alive in England!

Option 7: My second favourite - these canary-yellow and black creations allow me to be stand above the crowds.  As nice as they look, you could also call them 'hop-like-a-frog' shoes, because they're really not comfortable for break-dancing or doing the pogo stick and have been known to cause bunions the size of a golf ball.

Option 8: Chainsaw Shoes - And these plimsolls I was asked to wear when we commence the production of my new film.  I'll tell you more about the film later.  It's a closely guarded secret.

Option 9: Plastic Dominatrix Boots - I once wore these at a funeral.  They are sombre, aren't they?

Option 10: Not forgetting my gorgeous Fish Flip-flops, not so much for grand occasions and high days, than lounging around, I shall probably put them on at some point during the weekend.

Nothing beats the country life!

I'm going on a short bicycle ride around the countryside this afternoon.  It's all new to me, since I've only been living here for just under two months.  Here is a photograph taken of myself this morning, walking around my country house, Raffles.    

I purchased the Raffles Estate from my late, great Uncle Horatio some time ago.  It's a 17th century, grey-stoned manor, with an interesting past - it was once owned by Lady Pilkington-Jefferies, an outspoken artist, feared by many for her prickly ginger hair and outlandish dress style.  She adored the company of sailors and, legend has it, published many steamy stories of her voyages on the seven seas.  It is fitting that we share similiar interests.

Raffles has a walled garden and its own orchards, set on a hill just outside Brill, a farming village in northwest Buckinghamshire. 

Here is a view of the surrounding countryside.  It's the most idyllic and enchanting place, yet the sinful delights of London are only 50 minutes away by train.

A view across the pastoral landscape of rural Bucks, to a distant farm.

Internally, Raffles is full of grandfather clocks and grand staircases.  Most of all, I enjoy the library because it holds historic curios, glass cases full of preserved butterflies (Uncle Horatio was an interpid explorer and went deep into the Amazon with just a pith helmet and machete) and colonial artefacts.  On one of the walls is an original print, below, from the Elizabethan era.  

I find this picture particularly inspiring because it's exactly the way I like to cycle around the countryside.  Yes, that's right, if you're visiting northwest Buckinghamshire, you might glimpse Fanny on a vintage Penny-Farthing, usually just wearing lingerie, or sometimes, less than that!  It does help to break the ice when it comes to the rural English stiff upper-lip. 

I'm opening up my home to the village over the weekend, for a Summer Fête and also to celebrate the beginning of the production of my new film; here are some photographs of how the house and gardens have been decorated for the celebration.

 

The newly appointed staff are a damn sight better than the last ones in Wiltshire!  Look how well dusted this room is.

Where I do most of my writing in the day.

When I hold a celebration during the summer months, it's the height of decadence to string French, antique chandeliers from the trees; these are hanging everywhere around my garden, and will be perfectly complemented by a brass band I've organised.   It should be an unforgettable weekend.

Revenge, at last, on the village gossips

The North Bucks Rural Womens' Society - a ridiculous, ostentatious title for the 'blue rinse' brigade - hold meetings in the old tin shed, which serves as the village's meeting hall, to talk about rural affairs, cookery, wines, art, nature, etc.  Rather, a very old girl called Beryl gives a 3-hour monologue on the techniques associated with Macramé Cross-Stitch or how to get the best Windsor Fondant Butter Icing, followed by a deafening rendition of All Things Bright And Beautiful.

How riveting.  If there was ever any evidence that this remote but bucolic corner of Buckinghamshire was a cultural wasteland, it is apparent now.

This is Beryl, my village's oldest pensioner with expert knowledge she loves to share on 

how to dust high-backed, winged chairs; how to shake 'n' vac on deep shagpile carpets; 

and the best way to get grease-stains out of anti-macassars.  

Described locally as "Indispensible and gripping, she's a mine of relevant information".

I don't get involved in village affairs.  However, apparently the North Bucks Rural Womens' Society heard on the 'local grapevine' that I'd recently moved to the village and of my love of film as well as my extraordinary collection dating back to the 1920s, and they asked if I could lend them a good, heart-warming film for them to watch at their next meet, this evening.

Despite being in the age of internet, email and mobile phones,
this grapevine is the sole means of communication in rural areas of England.

I went straight to my film library housed in the west wing.  It takes up a whole room.  "Something educational, inspiring.  Something that all sensibilities will enjoy.  One of the classic films, if you please." said the little note scribbled on lilac paper.

"And it's U-R-G-E-N-T" was the valedictory remark, written in two-inch high letters, yet without a word of thanks.

I was repulsed by the writer's choice of stationery.  Lilac paper?  What is the writer trying to say to me?  What an extraordinary  faux pas.

 Lilac writing paper - used in many rural areas as a hidden, coded message to make indecent propositions of a lesbian nature upon an unsuspecting party

Of course, I replied immediately, writing on ordinary white un-lesbian paper with a quill pen, suggesting Gone With The Wind, a historical, epic film and Purlizter prize-winner.   Nothing is more legendary than Vivien Leigh's performance as Scarlett O'Hara.

The suggestion of a screening of Gone With The Wind was duly accepted, again coming back to me on lesbian lilac notepaper, and it was then I realised who was behind the little note asking for help.

Let's just nickname her Mrs Blackpudding.  

I don't like her at all.  

Let me describe her, so you know her if you see her:  she runs their little, secret society with military precision, yellow clipboard tucked under her arm. 

She's clearly a "sandwich short of a picnic", as she has a very odd way of speaking, referring to children in the village as "insubordinates" and once describing my poodle with no small amount of joy as "A curious, hirsute object, it does have odd locomotion don't you think? I think it uncanny how pets look like their owners. Do you sleep with it?".

She's utterly humourless, with the face of a shrew, and is never seen without her pillbox hat, no doubt trying to create a false impression of Victorian self-righteousness.

She boasts about making her own perfume from rose petals squashed into old jam-jars full of water, which would explain the malodorous air about her.

I suspect she 'drinks from the furry cup', since she runs a cafe-cum-shop called The Ginger Pig, selling Buckinghamshire Black Puddings; black pudding production itself is a well-documented lesbian vocation.   

She gave a scathing reading last week to all those assembled at the village hall entitled "All Men Are Pigs".  Clearly, she has in-depth knowledge on the subject given that she rears pigs only to make black pudding out of them and sell it to the village.

 

I usually go and vandalise her shop's signs late at night, after too much vodka.  

She wrote a letter of complaint recently about the height of my topiary hedge, claiming its design was "grossly inappropriate" and detracted from the village's intrinsic beauty. 

I fail to see anything grossly inappropriate about the above photo of my front lawn.

Therefore, I swapped the video, just to teach her a lesson she'll not forget.  

Whilst the video box says Gone With The Wind, and she's announced to the entire village that is what will be screened, what they'll actually be getting is this:

I do hope they enjoy, although the ones who've clearly lost their marbles probably won't even notice the difference.  They'll be too engrossed drinking their piping-hot tea, which comes thick with unstrained tea-leaves and floating lumps of limescale from the filthy, ancient tea urn, and is served in plastic beakers, despite the presence of nice china cups in the cupboard.  

And if Mrs Blackpudding ever takes issue with me about giving her the wrong film, my response will be as Clark Gable in his final line to Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With The Wind: "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn".

Swimming at Chapman's Pool, Dorset

The English climate is the Bipolar Disorder of all climates - up and down, always at the extreme end with nothing in the middle, and prone to sudden change.  

Weeks of Satanic weather cleared on Sunday and it's been Caribbean weather since: Tuesday 24th July was the hottest day of the year, peaking at 31c, with flawless blue skies. 

Villagers here complained it was too hot, the tarmac was melting, they couldn't sleep or even think straight.  They forgot that 5 days ago, they were complaining it had rained for 40 days and 40 nights, their streets were flooded, mildew was forming between their ears and that they were ready to sell up and move to Ethiopia.  Now they're praying for rain again.  I don't think there is pleasing some people. 

I live in a rural North Buckinghamshire village and I don't suppose they're accustomed to high fashion.   I recently purchased this adorable set of designer flip-flops, for just £2,750.  A mere snip for such uber-chic footwear.  No doubt me being seen wearing these has put some locals' noses out of joint.

Apparently, fashionistas in New York and Milan are raving about these flipflops, all the catwalk models are seen in them.

In order to make the most of the weather, I rose at the crack of dawn and my butler, Juan, gave my green Jaguar XKE a fine-tune, ready for a day's drive to the coast; not to the kiss-me-quick, 'all-you-can-eat' and candyfloss tatt of Southend or brash Brighton but the peaceful beauty of the Dorset coastline. 

Wearing a peacock-patterned Hermes scarf around my head, and driving with the roof down, it took just three hours to reach Chapman's Pool, a small, isolated cove of fine shingle, to the west of Worth Matravers.

The magnificent cliffs, grazed by sheep and divided by thick hedges and scored with fox-ridden lanes, are rich in fossils and I believe the Jurassic Coast runs through here.  It's not easy to get to, but is very quiet, with not a single hotel, town or building anywhere close - that's the untouched quality of the Dorset coastline.  

I change into my peppermint-coloured, diamond-studded bathing costume and make my way down to the beach, my fish flip-flops attracting some admiring glances.  I spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in the English Channel.

The sea, here more of a lagoon, is perfectly still, and pale blue like old people's eyes.   

Tourists visiting London for the Olympics and reading this should make the effort to leave the capital and visit the Dorset coast.  It's a world away from the England that the metropolis represents, like comparing chalk with cheese.  When the sun is shining, its rare beauty rivals many more exotic countries that I've had the opportunity to visit. 

Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop

I grew up with dogs on a remote farm in Texas and have always loved dogs with all my heart.   It's something that's been on my mind for a while now, and a week ago I decided that I was going to bring a dog into my life, for the companionship.  Whilst the cocktail parties and photo-shoots allow me to mix with a wide range of people, I always feel that a transvestite's best friend is a dog - Barbara Cartland always thought so.

Today, I purchased a pure-white 3-year old male poodle from a respected breeder in Aylesbury.  

I named him  

Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop.  

He has the most doleful eyes, yet is playful and loving.  I'm going to be spending a lot of time with him and have opened up my entire home to him.  He will have manicures and backscratches and ear massages and all the canine beauty treatments money can buy, as I've also appointed an assistant to take care of Mr P.

This is a closeup of how he looked this morning when I picked him up.

The canine beauty therapist came with some great experience - 6 years grooming pedigree dogs and she also claims she was the coiffurist for an A-list celebrity - and so the therapist advised me to allow Mr P a complete makeover, to bring out his beauty.

Here's Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop after a 2-hour session in the salon. 

 

The perfect climate - Britain

I strongly recommend tourists planning to visit Great Britain to bring this device along.  It's an old-fashioned, 3-minute sand timer, usually sold for a couple of dollars, occasionally used for boiling eggs.

Culinary aspirations aside, on a visit to the British Isles, it's an absolutely essential item to include in your luggage because it precisely measures the length of the British summertime.  Yes, that's right, the sun really does shine for just 3 minutes annually in the British Isles.   

Having grown up in balmy Southern Texas, we used to - like many countries - enjoy summer by visiting the beach, such as in the following picture of Fanny about to go surfing (naked) in the Gulf of Mexico:

But in Britian, visiting the beach is simply not possible due to the acute shortness of the summer.  The 3-minute Summer Solstice is therefore not traditionally celebrated on a Cornish beach or watching a Punch 'n' Judy show on the Yorkshire coast, but by the curious sport of bog-snorkelling.

Bog-snorkellers don snorkels, flippers and wetsuits, making them look like ridiculous, shiney, overgrown sea-lions, and jump unashamedly and unmedicated into the deep, flooded peat bogs north of the remote Welsh town of Llanwrtyd Wells, swimming back and forth, as frozen as a marrow, in the 55-metre long trench, its waters as brown and dreggy as onion soup.  

It seems a very bizarre habit to me, more of a fetish really.  Maybe I'm a little reserved.   As an American living in England, it's going to be a very difficult adjustment process getting used to the filthy delights of a watery ditch in Wales, but you cannot argue their exquisite taste.  Then again, if you don't like bog-snorkelling the other summer-time outdoor options practised by the British (particularly the Welsh) are binge-drinking, punch-ups and booze-fuelled violence.

He forced his jumbo jet into my hangar

I've been in a continual black mood due to weeks of apocalyptic weather; my all-over tan has faded suddenly from Hawaiian Sunset to the unflattering pallor of a shelled, boiled egg, something I find intolerable.

Growing up in the aridness of Southern Texas, I am not at all accustomed to this dankness.  It seems that light is literally at the end of the tunnel, as meteorologists claim sunny weather begins in the next few days.   Given the vagaries of the English climate, I am planning to buy a third home in the gorgeous country of Portugal - I'll post more on that subject soon.

In the meantime, stuck indoors with rain hammering against the French doors and the fire lit at 10 in the morning, I've been reading classical porn from my library, although I should make the point that this is not trashy porn or chic-lit, which I find insulting to my intelligence, but soft-core porn from the Golden Era.  I'll not bore you with too many details, only to say how wonderfully evocative I found the following expression:

"He forced his jumbo jet into my hangar"

 It does conjure a wonderful mental image, doesn't it?