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.

A bling toilet

I've got 17 bathrooms here at Raffles, so I had one of these diamond-studded toilets installed in each bathroom.   When you flush, the thing plays Greensleeves at full volume.  Delightful! And, of course, it was necessary to buy some new toilet paper, too.  So I chose the following design, completely bespoke.  There's something so satisfying about my choice of design... and it doesn't feel scratchy on the bum like that horrid old tracing-paper stuff.

Unbleached, unpulped, soft-as-a-feather toilet tissue

with Belladonna the Maid's ugly face lovingly printed onto

every sheet.

Extra security

As you can see, I've had to get extra security to prevent Belladonna, my arsonist maid (also known as Belladonna Bitchhole) from re-entering the premises after her scandalous shenanigans onboard a train.   These men were handpicked by none other than moi.    Third from the Left is very good in bed (I cannot begin to describe the sexual gymnastics he forced me to perform)!   We've had to put up electric fencing.  The place looks more like Colditz than Playgirl Mansion.

Meanwhile, I last saw Belladonna living out on the village green, rummaging through the bins, eating chicken gizzards.  It is so heart-warming to know that she's found her place in life.

 

Belladonna looks a bit rough in this photograph. 

Arson aboard the 23.52 service to London

Down in the kitchens, I was just about to stuff a turkey with a Terry's Chocolate Orange when the news came on the television.   Normally I don't watch TV whilst cooking, but it does make a nice background noise.   I froze in horror at the images being shown on screen ... all on live television, screened to millions across the nation!    (*Turn your volume up*)

Just watch this news report: 
 

Who'd have thought it?  Belladonna, the fire-starter!  

I am outraged that the BBC News mistakenly put a photograph of an elderly woman wearing a Burqa to represent me.  My publicist would have sent them one of my glamour-modelling shots, but no they put up a picture of someone who is not even me.  No doubt done on purpose! They shall be hearing from my lawyer!

Belladonna Bitchhole has brought my household into unforgivable and serious disrepute.  I really must get rid of her now.   Apparently, she's been released on police bail.  I shall have to booby-trap the drive so she can't even get near the house...

Why I bought 12 truckloads of spray

 

I'm at my wit's end as to what to do about my maid, Belladonna (known by her pet-name, Belladonna Bitchhole).  This morning I went to Pets R Us - a shop run by poodles, for poodles - and purchased 12 truckloads of this delightful spray.  When I got home and found Belladonna, I sprayed a whole can in her face, the way police officers spray mace on Police Camera Action (my second favourite TV programme, after The Wombles).  She's now weeping in the coal-shed, much sub-dued.

Round the bend with Belladonna Bitchhole

As you can see, my maid, Belladonna Bitchhole, has gone completely mad this New Year's Eve.   She stands on the grand staircase, dressed as a blancmange.  Yes, that's right, dear Reader, it's not a typo or a drunken rant on my part.  She was literally wearing a wobbling dress made from extra-strength pink blancmange, itself a sort of trifle or after-dinner pudding appreciated in French circles.  She'd also dyed her hair green.  I love the way her pudgy little arms poke out the sides, like ham bones.  

Really, that varmint would try the patience of an oyster.  I must get rid of her.

Fanny Love now on Twitter

Roll up, roll up.  Fanny Love has signed up to Twitter.  Follow me on https://twitter.com/FannyLoveTV

What is Twitter?, I hear you ask.

According to techno-queen, Fanny Love, Twitter is:

1. A social network allowing anyone exactly 0.547893 seconds of fame


2. A social network allowing anyone to post what they ate for breakfast, the conversation they had with a stranger on the bus, the last bowel movement they had, or any other profoundly irrelevant information. 

3. A comment posted on Twitter is called a Tweet.  And a Twitter user is called a Twat.

4. Twitter has over 230 million users.  Almost three quarters are resident in some form of Secure Psychiatric Unit.


5. If you have an obsession about under-sink plumbing, Viennese piano-tuning, 1970s Uruguyan three-wheeler motor vehicles, or Esquimo Lesbianism, Twitter is the place to post - you're sure to find an audience, no matter how strange your interest.

6. Twitter typos can be disastrous to your career - when gorgeous Scottish beauty Susan Boyle promoted her new music collection Standing Ovation: The Greatest Songs from the Stage, her Twitter hash-tag was accidentally susanalbumparty.   It can be read both ways: "Susan Album Party" or "Sus Anal Bum Party".  It depends if you have a filthy mind.   Naughty SuBo!



7. Twitter has been going since the 1950s.  Its logo is a white dove evacuating its bowels against a blue sky, representing the release of pertinent information.

8. Twitter is not suited for the verbose; if you suffer grandiosity or a need to go into excessive detail, Twitter is restricted to 160 characters.  You could, of course, get a blog instead.  Or just go to a public toilet with a felt tip pen and record your thoughts on the toilet wall.

9. My favourite 'must-read' Tweet was by a 1980s pop star who Tweeted about a rather unpleasant experience he had with an Angel Delight Trifle in the Gents loo at the top of the Taipei 101 Tower.  Delightful!

10. Many famous people appear on Twitter, and their philosophical posts are celebrated by the world's media.  It made front page headlines when one of the Wombles - I think it was Uncle Bulgaria - posted that he made marmalade out of ear-wig droppings.  Gripping.

11. Fanny Love's first Tweet was "Twitter is so exciting, I decided to put my head in the oven".

 Fanny, bored, home alone, and with her head in the oven, after after just 2 seconds on Twitter

So if you're not already on Twatter, 2014 is the year to sign up and to regale the world with intimate and riveting descriptions of kitchen-sink life.   Toodle-pipsqueak!

Christmas tantrums from Belladonna

In a moment of sheer vodka-induced boredom, Fanny created this lovely, Belladonna-themed snow-globe.  A little plasticine model of Belladonna, horrifyingly realistic, was placed inside the globe, itself a forgotten Christmas present from 1981.  I've emailed Toys R Us to see if they're interested in the design.  

Meanwhile, Belladonna has been whining like a spoilt brat today, demanding her Christmas gifts.  I found her standing on top of my Louis Quatorze piano, stamping her feet on the lid in a little rage.   As my least favourite member of staff, I've tried countless times to terminate her from my household, with little success.   Knowing that I'd be shackled with her over the Christmas period, I spent Christmas Eve wrapping up a few 'special', unforgettable gifts for her, especially hand-picked, to show her just who is boss.

My first gift to my lovely, very beautiful maid was a set of Sea Urchin Earrings.  She looked a little miffed when she tore open the Christmas wrapping paper like a rabid dog.  She just sat there, expressionless. Ungrateful wench!

The second present I thrust into her grubby little hands was this.

That's right.  It's an electric eel.  A thoughtful and heartfelt gift to a much-loved maid.  I even wrapped it in a sheet of tinfoil.  She's in a sulk now.  I can't think why!

Cook and her Yorkshire Pudding fetish

Oh dear Lord!  Cook has gone round the bend again for the sixty-seventh time this year.  I discovered she drunk the Gin Cabinet completely dry - all 182 bottles drained!

As for her warped state of mind, her planned menu for tomorrow's Grand Christmas lunch consisted of:

•  marshmallow in Minestrone soup;
  
• followed by a latte with shredded tuna; 
  
• liver and squid casserole; an oyster milkshake;
• flambéed octopus served in a waffle,

and other, quite frankly disgusting culinary perversions.

Worst of all, she had made a Yorkshire Pudding Tower, almost 40-feet tall, containing over 1000 Yorkshire puddings. 

I'm going to have to get rid of her.  Immediately.   I asked her to come up to the fourth floor and take a seat in the ejector seat.   I felt a jolt of joy as I pressed the red button and watched the hatch in the ceiling open and shoot Cook at high speed out into the night air, in the general direction of Long Crendon, some 5 miles away.

You might remember that last Christmas, I appeared on live television for my I'd Like to Teach the World to Cook series (click the link, bitches!).

Meanwhile, Belladonna, my maid, is masturbating furiously over the sight of the 40-foot tall Yorkshire Pudding Tower.

Silence is golden

This is my maid.   Her name is Belladonna Zlatogrivov.  She has a fetish for Wonder Woman-themed garments, mostly lycra that is obscenely revealing of her tree-trunk sized thighs.  She chews liquorice.  She eats brussel sprout sandwiches.  Her favourite hobbies are doing the shot-put and naked oil wrestling.  Her training at the Vladvistok School of Domesticity didn't even get as far as "how to make a cup of tea".  

She is utterly without point.  No matter how many times I've tried to get rid of the woman, she keeps coming back to me.   She is a literal white elephant, costing me a fortune in her fees yet being completely useless and incompetent of even the simplest task.

Last night, after imbibing too much absinthe, I had the most lurid nightmare about Belladonna:

Yes, that's right, in a kaleidoscope of colour and song, Belladonna Zlatogrivov appeared to be walking along the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy and others towards the Emerald City.  It was most disturbing.   I feel quite nauseous, woke in a terrible start, and have just consumed a whole packet of Xanax and Prozac.

This morning, as if by some queer design, Belladonna came into the sitting room with my breakfast which she had "murdered": some rock-hard boiled eggs; a greasy flute of champagne; some smoked-salmon garnished with a sprig of lavender.   Yes, that's right smoked salmon and lavender go together like lesbians and kittens.   Anyway, at that point, she accidentally (on purpose) tripped on the rug and threw the whole breakfast tray into my lap.

Outraged at her insubordination, it dawned on me that there was one way - and one way only - of discipling this unruly waif.

That's right: silence is golden... duct tape is silver.  And Fanny is very nifty with a pair of scissors.  Here's the result:

All trussed up with no-where to go: Belladonna hasn't let out a squeak.  An unnatural silence has descended on the house.

A quick suck

I enjoy gobbling down caviar.   Don't you?   I'm not talking about the cheap crap that Lidl are currently peddling for £1.69!   For me, it's Beluga, always.  Little black balls of love, I call them, presented in a dark-blue tin with gold emboss all the way from Russia, usually costing around £2,500 per tin - a rare, decadent delicacy, as scintillating as sex. 

When I entered the larder this morning, I screamed "Quelle horreur" in anguish at the realisation that the caviar was all gone - not a pot anywhere in the house, and so none for breakfast.   What was I to do?

I grabbed a pair of binoculars and spied my neighbour's well-stocked fishing lake.  Lady Battenburg-Windsor-Rump-Python-Coningsby is her name, and I cannot be bothered socialising with her or even remembering her ridiculous penta-barrelled name, as she is merely cheap, nouveau riche trash.

Ten minutes later, if anybody had been looking, they might have seen me wearing this racy swimsuit beside her fishing lake with a net in my mouth.  

In the blink of an eye, I plunged into the freezing water and spotted a huge adult sturgeon fish lurking at the murky bottom.  The thing put up a lot of fight, but I snagged the fish in the net, climbed out of the lake, made a run for it, somersaulting over the hedge across my extensive grounds to the kitchens with the slippery fish in tow.

The picture below best describes what I did next, aided by a plastic drinking straw which I was momentarily able to allow to leave my glass of gin n tonic:

Fish preparation techniques from world renowned gastronome, Fanny Love: Removing caviar the simple way.  Just grab any old sturgeon fish from your neighbour's pond, shove a drinking straw up its orifice and suck for England!  You will soon be rewarded with caviar.

Whilst startled at the striking resemblance of the sturgeon fish to my maid, Belladonna (they both have the same bottom-feeder physical qualities), I sucked away with the drinking straw trying to extract some caviar from the damned thing.  All the fish did was wriggle around.

Alas, the whole plan backfired (quite literally) when the fish flicked its tail, gave me a look of utter disdain, and released its bowels all over my face.   

Welshman gets toilet roll stuck up his back passage

As Fanny was eating her £5.98 fish 'n' chips last night, she caught sight of a very interesting news article amidst the oily wrappings (the newspapers in United States of England are so dire nobody actually reads them, instead they wrap greasy cooked fish meals in them).

The story was about Fanny's favourite little nation, Wales, where the earth is 90% covered in permafrost year-round and a bat is not a flying creature but a national delicacy.  Anyway, published in the Independent, this delightful Yuletide story - no doubt read out to scores of children as a bedtime story - goes like this:
  

"A Welshman was forced to call 999 after he got a toilet roll holder stuck up his bottom.  The un-named man, who appears to have been home at the time, was left unable to move, but luckily had his mobile phone close by.

Firemen who attended the scene were able to free him from the object successfully, but he did require on the spot medical treatment from paramedics

The firemen then provided the man, from Newport, South Wales, with “suitable advice” to avoid getting into a similar predicament again"

What a fame-whore this un-named Welshman is!  I wouldn't put it past my maid, Belladonna Zlatgrivov, to try a cheap publicity trick like that, although she's Russian!  

My question is rather simple: Is inserting a toilet roll holder into one's derrière a national past-time in Wales?  

The horrors of online dating

Juan, my live-in Brazilian fuck puppet, is currently vacationing in Outer Mongolia and so I'm home alone and quite bored out of my tiny little brain and completely sex-starved.  In my hour of need, I turned to online dating website, LatinoStuds.co.uk, which promised me there would probably be a Latino stud with a 6-pack and 9 inch cock in my local area.

My little silk knickers were moistening, so I accessed the site and set up my profile with all the necessary requirements I look for in a man: handsome, under 30, ripped body, smooth, possibly S&M tendencies, voracious sexual appetite, etc.

Some 5 minutes later, ping!, an email advised me of a profile that exactly matched my requirements.  Licking my lips hungrily, I logged in.

Here was the first match:

Bert, 92. A retired ballet dancer and part-time scaffolder. From Melksham, Wiltshire. He lists his hobbies as fisting, monster dildoes, and fly-fishing. Looking for love. Not fussed whether it's a man or woman.

Eeeeeeeekkkkkk!  I have just projectile-vomited out of the window, right across the formal lawn, showering the topiary hedge in cornflakes.  This is not what I asked for, and is about as welcome as a dose of herpes.

I grabbed a bottle of gin and didn't even bother mixing it with tonic, and glugged half-a-bottle's-worth to calm my raw nerves.

Ping!  The arrival of a new email, advising of a further match.  This time, I lovingly tweaked my own breast through my eiderdown antique smock.

That is until I almost passed out from a heart attack at the abomination in my Inbox:

Marigold, a 44-year old housewife from Bedford, and escapee from the town's Secure Unit,
making her debut appearance on dating website, LatinoStuds. "I have a bunny girl fetish" she helpfully adds to her profile.

And the final insult to injury came when this little 'gem' of a profile-match ping-ed its way into my email box:

What a winning profile: Alfred, 66, from Barnsley (which, incidentally, is about a million miles from my bucolic corner of England). Enjoys his beer, fags and pork scratching. Hobbies: playing with cucumbers, radishes, aubergines and egg-whisks.

I have never been so horrified in my life - imagine the shock, to be regaled, by electronic means, from a man who systematically abuses cucumbers.  I have concluded that online dating - all online dating - is a cirque du freak, only ideal if you enjoy having sex with cockroaches.  And if you don't speak Froglais, cirque du freak means a 'freak show'!.

I open a Christmas present early

Fanny had a large 7-foot tall by 4-foot wide brown package delivered to her rear, tradesmens' entrance this afternoon.  It bore the words "Don't open until Christmas day".  It was addressed to moi, postmarked Rio de Janeiro.  It was rather heavy and there was a strange scuffling noise coming from inside.  What could it be?

"Don't open until Christmas day" the words glared at me.    Fuck that!  I tore off the packaging in a frenzy.  At one point there was shredded brown cardboard, remnants of sellotape and other materials showering down like a snowstorm.

Imagine my surprise when all the packaging was removed to reveal this present:

 

It was very kind indeed of my great Aunt Prunella to send me this startled man, seemingly handpicked from the streets of Rio de Janeiro according to the greetings card.  He did, however, seem very pleased to see me.

I've set him about dusting the grand banquet room whilst wearing a lime-green posing pouch, and nothing else.

Answers on a postcard, please, as to what I should do with him...

The indignity of it

Today, I was driven by chauffeur to London.  We only got half-way there.

I was wearing my most head-turning outfit.  I was dressed as a swan.   Do you like my dress?

As we drove off the M25, the limousine broke down.  It turned out one of the wheels had come loose, flew off and crashed through the front-room window of somebody's house.  I do hope the wheel hasn't been damaged by striking an occupant - that would be a very grave misfortune.

I telephoned Special Branch at Scotland Yard and demanded they fly the Royal Helichopper out to transport me to Central London, but they flatly refused, leaving me dejected by their querulous "who are you?".    Alone and vulnerable in an unknown part of London, I headed for the bright lights of....

Whoever named this suburb of North London with this
ridiculous cartoon name should be flogged at dawn. Let me guess, the Mayor of Cockfosters is Daffy Duck.

Can you imagine how miffed I was to find myself buying a ticket at Cockfosters - yes, it's a real place - Cockfosters tube station in North London and sitting on a train that groaned and wheezed like an old man, all its long, laborious way into Central London, with a thousand sets of grubby, working-class eyes roving hungrily up and down my body (no doubt jealous at the beauty of my swan dress), whilst having to endure the nausea of travelling in a train carriage slowly filling with the obnoxious mixture of cheap perfume, audible flatulence, pungent aromas of steak pie and the stink of cheap ale.

 
These smells were not coming from my personage, I should add, as I never eat steak pie or drink cheap ale, and I only ever smell of roses, even when I gently release what I term 'polite lady's flatulence', it smells delightfully of roses and lemons and is a pleasure to behold.  No... the offensive stench was coming from the other passengers cooped up in confines of a carriage that had all the comfort of a hen cage).

There is nothing more so offensive than releasing untold amounts of flatulence, especially of a working-class nature, in a confined space.  As for the public shame of eating a steak pie whilst on a Tube train, all I can do is repeat the words of the Count de Monet --- "the peasants are revolting!"

The Piccadilly Line from Cockfosters to London, also known as the Tube to Hell: this - erm - rather large female passenger - spent the entire duration looking on the floor for her glass eye which had fallen out.  Meanwhile, rather than spend the 40-minutes gazing at her morbidly obese derriere, I wandered, swan-like, the entire length of the train looking for the First Class compartment, sadly in vain.  I've never travelled on a train before in my entire life and don't think I shall do so ever again.  I feel a bout of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder coming on after the rigours of the London Underground.

 

The whole experience brought me out in hives and I took a quick sniff of the good 'ol Poppers to steady me as I ascended from the gloom of Holborn tube station, cursing the metropolis' shockingly antiquated and impoverished transport system, whilst checking my swan dress for any stains that might have transferred themselves from the train seat.

The only redeeming feature of my train trip was this very polite ticket inspector who asked to see my ticket at Holborn tube station.

Cockfosters, by the looks of it, is the type of place populated by women named Sharon, who have a big, blonde hairdo, wear white stilettos all year round, and guzzle Malibu in nightclubs while dreaming of one day opening the doors of their mock-Tudor mansion to Hello! magazine.

I have already written to John Betjeman, poet, to ask him to change his mind about his epic poem 'Come Friendly Bombs and Fall on Slough' and instead to re-verse it 'Come Friendly Bombs and Blow the Smithereens out of Cockfosters and take with it the Oopsa-Daisy Line or whatever it is called'. 

I shall also be writing a letter to Mayor of London, Boris Yeltsin, to protest he do something about the horrors of the tube and next time to make available his limousine for my private usage.  I sharn't be coming face to face with hoi polloi ever again on London's public transport failure.

Good day to you.

Do-it-yourself Botox

I'm sucking ice-cubes, non-stop.    I've just had Do-it-Yourself Botox to my lips.   J'adore Botox!   But today, I simply couldn't be bothered to visit the beauty salon for a couple of injections, so instead, I did it myself in the comfort of my own home.  

Here's how:  as you know, Fanny keeps bees at her country estate.  So I went outside to one of the beehives and plunged an empty tea-pot into the beehive and filled it with worker bees.  I then went back indoors and deliberately stung myself about a dozen times on the lips.  Of course, I had to knock back a few triple-strength paracetamols mixed with a few triple-strength gin n' tonics to soothe the pain, but I'm really over-the-moon with the result.  Don't my Marilyn Monroe lips look wonderful? And to think - I saved £500 by doing it myself! I'll dispense another beauty-saving tip soon x
 

 Now receiving rave reviews on the Money Saving Expert website: Fanny's Do-It-Yourself classic 'bee sting' lips are better and cheaper than Botox.   Instructions: If you live in a city, go for a drive into the country [somewhere nice like Buckinghamshire, not somewhere chavvy like Essex] and find yourself an old country hice, the sort of place that looks posh; break in to the grounds and find the beehives.  You can annoy the bees by kicking the hive and then opening the lid and plunge your face fully into the beehive and count to 90.  Result: beautiful, kissable, all-natural Marilyn Monroe lips that only cost the price of half a tank of petrol!

Season of mists and mellow fruitiness

I absolutely adore this time of year: the spectacle of falling, golden leaves; icicles forming pretty patterns; the bleak cry of the raven;  the promise of darkness at 4pm and with it, the chance to partake in the curious English past-times of dogging, cruising and cottaging before going home to tea. 

It is titillating to throw off my mink coat and, without a care in the world, to skip through the deep carpets of autumn leaves wearing only Italian black silk lingerie, stay-up sheer nylon stockings and 12-inch black sluts' heels.   I stop to pick wild berries and collect mushrooms in a basket. 





Imagine my horror when I arrived at my favourite layby/woodland only to find this sign had been put up by the local constabulary.

What kill-joys!  How dare they spoil our fun.

 I rushed home and immediately pressed a few buttons on that Photoshop thing-a-majiggy and produced this wonderful poster.

Keep Calm and Cruise For Sex! by Fanny Love

Fanny vehemently supports with all her heart the practice of cruising, dogging and cottaging. Share the love!  Feel free to print off this poster and place it in a prominent position at your favourite local public toilet / park / woodland / layby. 

Meanwhile, sit back with your warm cup of cocoa and enjoy these photos of others out cruising, cottaging and dogging:

Dogging, cruising and cottaging:
a delightful, wholesome British past-time, celebrated and practiced by generations of Britons.

Along came Belladonna, the Maid

It has been a while since I wrote here, dear Reader. 

The dregs of summer finally fizzled out like too much cheap champagne; the highlight of that time was the ejection from a fourth floor window of my hand-servant, Maude, for the offence of insubordination - she refused to clean my gold-plated bathroom suite with a toothbrush.  Some people say that unruly servants should be 'sacked' or 'fired'; I say that a firing squad is too good for them and to instead throw them out of the top window, naked if possible, as the final act of showing them who is boss.  

I couldn't really be bothered with all the malarkey involved in hiring new staff, interviewing etc, so I left the job to my trusty personal assistant with the instructions to employ someone suitable, someone who knows how to make a cup of tea and clean the bogs, someone who can make beds with their eyes closed, and pour a half-decent dry martini or Crème de Menthe Frappé whilst doing the hoovering.

Needless to say I was incandescent with rage to discover that this ... this woman turned up for work this morning.  Her name, apparently, is Belladonna Zlatogrivov, a hoarse-voiced Russian with a huge beehive of jet-black hair and thighs like tree-trunks.  She has a penchant for wearing spectacles with chains and gold lamé boob-tubes.   She carries a can of fly-spray in her red fake Barbarella handbag, no doubt not understanding enough English to know that it's not deodorant.  That would explain the peculiar smell whenever she thuds into the room.

Putting on my pink, crystal lorgnette reading glasses (if you don't know what a lorgnette is, it is a pair of spectacles with a handle, used to hold them in place, rather than fitting over the ears) I look a quick squint at the woman's C.V. or curriculum vitae.  This is what I found:

Disgusting.  Quite how my personal assistant had hired a woman who lists her hobbies as "eating Fray Bentos pies", "doing the shot-put" and having an "amazing collection of Anal Beads" is beyond me.  And as for that Polaroid shot, well!  Hardly showing her 'best' side is she!   My personal assistant clearly must have had an acute psychotic episode to have entertained employing this cirque du freak.  Now this abomination of a woman was in my household and a member of staff!

The only personal item she arrived with, other than her suitcase, was an orange 1970s Space Hopper; no doubt, her only friend.

Belladonna apparently means in Latin 'beautiful woman'.  The woman is already breaching the Trade Misdescriptions Act by using that name.  She has all the charm of a drain-pipe.  She belches in a very manly way.

How to get rid of her?   

"Send that bitch out on this morning's hunt" I barked, "I don't want her near my ormolu clock.  She's not a maid.  I don't even want her in the house.  Give her sleeping quarters in the stable-block where she belongs with sawdust as a bed".


Some hours later, I was advised by the hunt-master that all the hunting dogs (mostly spaniels) had run off (no doubt scared off by Belladonna's arrival) but that Belladonna had single-handedly brought down several pheasants, chased a fox out of its hole and cornered, fought with, and brought down a vicious, wild boar.  Maybe she has a use for me after all!