July 2020

Lady P - July 2020

Greetings and salutations my ravishing readers!

I am honoured and thrilled to be the travel correspondent for the global phenomenon that is emmaheaven.com. My name is Lady Perdita Fitzwilliam Tudor-Croft, Perdy to friends, Ditsy D to family and Dirty Dita to my unsavoury exes, but you can all call me Lady P.

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My darling readers,

Alas, at the time of writing, we’re still under a semi-restricted lockdown, and one is writing this column from the confinements of what I can only refer to as my jail cell, where I have been stripped of my basic and necessary human rights. A tad dramatic? Maybe!

But the truth of the matter is, that I did do something, which, on reflection, was a tad naughty, and Daddy has duly punished me for it.

Cast your minds back if you will, to that wonderful announcement from Boris, when he stated that all non-essential shops would re-open, along with the oh-so heady rumours of every British adult being gifted £500 (and their dependents £250) to spend on the high street, to get the economy rebooted.

Well being a confirmed shop-a-holic, and a most supportive patriotic soul, I did what any self-respecting fashionista would do in a similar position. I embarked upon the mother of all shopping sprees!

Before this economic-enhancing expedition could begin, I limbered up with some yoga and meditation, as I needed to be nimble on my feet, fighting fit, and one’s head needed to be in the Zen zone. How else could I snaffle up the best on-sale goodies before anyone else got their sanitised paws on them?!

Under starters orders, and braced like an Olympian athlete ready to hurtle the hurdles, one hot-footed it to Bond Street with a wallet chock full of plastic, with the family’s trusty driver Giles in tow, ready, willing and verrrry able, to carry one’s purchases.

Well he had been out of action for some months, so this little jaunt should ease him back in gently. Thank goodness I saw him regularly doing press ups on Mummy’s bed during lockdown - tho I have no idea why he couldn’t use the staff gym facilities by the stables…

Anyway. I digress.

lady p julyFeelings of euphoria washed over me as I stood inside Gucci for what seemed like an eternity. As I drank in my surroundings, my eyes feasted on the sumptuous goodies that lay before me, luring me in. I know I should have exercised a modicum of caution and shopped wisely, but seriously, it had been more than three months, and one was doing her bit to help the economy. I felt like Superman - and retail therapy was my Kryptonite!

Any resolve I may have ever possessed, weakened in an instant, and a fleeting moment of guilt was quickly replaced with an endorphin rush to rival any of the thrills I’ve enjoyed in my chequered life! And once this gal starts to shop...Well my ravishing darlings, one cannot simply just stop.

The counter groaned under the weight of all the goodies piled high, with the assistants run off their feet with packaging flying everywhere in a frenzy of activity. The plastic was handed over and then one’s bountiful treasure was handed over to a waiting Giles who dutifully stowed in the car as I dashed to the next store.

This chain of events I’m (not) ashamed to say happened, and were repeated, in Chanel, Prada, Alexander McQueen, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, Dolce & Gabbana, Tiffany & Co, Bulgari, Cartier, Chloe, and by the time I reached darling Dior and handed over my card, they discreetly asked me to step into the manager's office.

Call me little Miss naive, but I honestly thought they were going to give me a special award or a whopping discount for being such an excellent customer. So you can imagine the fear, shame and distress when they asked for my wallet, took out ALL the credit cards and cut ALL of them up.

Just as they were slicing through the plastic, one’s mobile phone started buzzing with the dreaded screen proclaiming ‘Daddy dearest’ calling….oh dear!

When I answered all I could hear was an endless stream of “bloody hell Dita, bloody angry, bloody hell, bloody, bloody angry, get back here now, etc, etc.”

Well now. One was all of a fluster as Giles bundled me, empty-handed, into the back of the car. We drove home in absolute silence. By the time we had gently crunched up the gravel driveway to the main entrance, panic had well and truly set in.

How mad could Daddy really be? Surely he knows how long I’ve had to go without my weekly shopping fix on Bond Street. It’s like therapy. And he’s high up in the Chamber of Commerce, so if anyone would understand the basics of the economy and championing its revival, it’s Daddy.

One was rather sheepish entering the study where I had been summoned. Nothing could have prepared me for the bollocking I received.

Daddy’s eyes bulged as he shouted and gesticulated wildly. Even Mummy was scared and hid behind one of the wingback chairs, while being chivalrously consoled by Giles, yet telling Daddy to calm down as his blood pressure would go through the expensive, newly-refurbished roof.

The shouting and blustering merged into an irksome white noise, until I was shaken out of my stupor as Daddy painstakingly laid down the law!

It was bad enough he was humiliated at having the chairman of the bank call him about his fragile finances after successfully renegotiating a temporary overdraft, but to then be asked if his credit cards had been cloned by an organised crime gang who were on the mother of all spending sprees in Central London, was the final straw!

Daddy said he wouldn’t be able to show his face in any of his gentlemen’s clubs next time he was in town, as he knew exactly how chaps berated those unable to keep their women in line. Especially spendthrift daughters!

His anger only increased as I tried to defend myself. I thought I had my finger on the pulse, and doing my patriotic duty to kickstart the economy, thanks to an anticipated windfall from those nice politician chappies with money to burn.

Through gritted teeth, Daddy explained that I had foolishly added on several more zeros to the rumoured windfall payments of £250-£500 per person, and that I should “leave the effing finances to those with two brain cells to rub together!”

Any further attempts to plead my case fell on deaf ears. Daddy, as judge, jury and executioner had reached his decision.

One was to be:

  • Confined to the west wing of the house with no Wi-Fi unless it was work-related and only then, it would be under strict supervision.
  • Stripped of all bank and credit cards, along with any other means of purchasing ANYTHING. I would not be getting them back anytime soon.
  • Cut off financially, other than any bare essentials I might need, as Daddy so eloquently stated “your spending habits are totally out of control”. He left the room muttering ‘spoiled brat’, ‘bloody women’, ‘bloody handbags’, ‘bloody shoes’, ‘who does she think she is? A bloody centipede?!’

I really thought he was over-reacting (again!), until Mummy politely told me that I had racked up a bill nigh on £250K. Oh dear…Whoops-a-daisy!

Okay, I can now sort of see what all the fuss is about, however, do I really need to be confined to my room and stripped of my right to shop? Does the punishment really fit the ‘crime’?! One feels like a prisoner who needs to be freed from her cell.

And my captors haven’t given me any indication of when this personal hell will be over. Are we talking days, weeks, or months?

I know I’m not stuck in some squalid jail cell. And that the spacious west wing, with its four poster bed, plus round the clock maid service qualifies as luxurious, but I am now even more locked down than I ever was during the official lockdown.

They may as well have dressed me in a striped jumpsuit. I shall have to suffice with a jaunty Breton-style top. There’s absolutely no way one would be decked out in orange, and as for taking my phone and iPad away, well that’s just a total breach of my rights and downright cruel. Exactly how am I supposed to update my social media?!

I would demand a lawyer, only I have no way of contacting one, nor paying for one...Maybe Mummy could help out. Although she reliably informs me that my ginger prince is keeping the legal beagles busy, by suing all and sundry at the moment. Sounds like he’s gone ‘la la’ in La La Land already...

So here I am, like Rapunzel, locked in her tower, waiting for my prince to come and rescue me with a lovely big fat unlimited credit card, ready and waiting to be used and abused. A gal can dream…This is one Rapunzel who won’t let down YOUR heir!! Geddit?! They can take away my liberty; but they shall not steal my witty spirit!

One is thinking of starting a petition to ‘free Lady P’, maybe even start a little crowdfunding page as this fashionista might fade away if she can’t fund her ‘habit’ which benefits so many staff and their employers. One can categorically say that this lack of shopping will not only affect one's mental health, but the nation’s wealth!

So please, my lovely, concerned readers, before I sign off until my next narrow window of Wi-Fi opportunity, if you are concerned for my welfare and this nation’s economy, I urge you to add your name to one’s petition. Please email those lovely gals at Team Heaven #FreeLadyP #SaveTheEconomy

Meanwhile, when life throws us lemons, this gal will turn them into Limoncello! Ciao tutti...

Toodle pip,


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***Note to Team Heaven gals***

I may be indisposed and offline for some time. However, the solitude has given this gal time to ponder about suitable paramours.

I fear that my beloved peachy, princely paramour may be even further out of my reach - not just geographically - his sheen has somewhat dulled since he went Stateside.

Perhaps I could be eligible for parole if I can offer up a strategic solution to Daddy?!

One hears that there are some influential politician chaps in London, whom Daddy might consider a suitable dynastic pairing for this spinster of the parish.

I’m reliably informed that there is some god-like creature who holds the country’s purse-strings. Chancellor of the Cheque Book or Exchequer or some such grand title. The present incumbent is known as Dishy-Rishi - be absolute darlings, and do some due diligence on him and any of his solvent associates. This gal’s freedom and sanity depends upon it!

Dita and your country needs you! Mwah, xx

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