Lady P - January 2021
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.
Happy new year my ravishing readers, well what a year it has already been so far, and boy did it start with a big bang, but MORE about THAT later, I pinky promise you!
Inevitably, news leaked out about my little rendezvous with a certain pint-sized Hollywood star, not that one is prone to bragging, but I don’t ever recall being quite so ‘popular’ or ‘in demand’! The inboxes across my every social media accounts and other messaging platforms were overflowing. I’ve been tagged, tweeted and hashtagged to within an inch of my social media life, one was even briefly trending on all platforms with #LadyPHasCruiseControl.
To be honest, it all got a bit much and one had to go cold turkey and wean myself away, but believe me my darlings, I am nobody’s fool and realised immediately that all this attention was from fickle ‘friends’ wanting to muscle in on a little of my limelight and bask in some reflected glory. I soon signposted them to #HangersOnAnon, where they could mix with kindred spirits...
So back to that ‘big bang’ I mentioned at the beginning of this month’s column. Alas, it was not the bang you or I would have envisioned for a New Year’s Eve! Daddy naively (optimistically?) decided that he would be in charge of the evening’s entertainment.
Traditionally, we hire in a firm of reputable caterers and entertainment professionals, however, due to the latest lockdown restrictions, desperate times called for desperate measures. Mummy and I were in charge of catering - Mummy the food; and I the libations, which was no hardship for me, chiefly thanks to cousin Pierre who generously sent over the most delightful and extensive selection of champagne and wines; initially I thought that 25 crates for our modest little gathering was slightly excessive, but then again, he knows us rather well, and like many, our alcohol consumption and tolerance this last year has grown throughout quarantine.
Anyhow I digress, back to Daddy and the ‘big bang’. In his infinite wisdom, he decided we needed a firework display to rival the one that was (officially) cancelled in London but he pressed ahead anyway. He’d show the bloody neighbours an aerial illumination show like no other they’d have ever witnessed before. He even had the presumptive foresight to write a thankyou note to send to our ‘admiring neighbours’.
Well now, Daddy dearest has the nerve to call me vain - well he should bloody talk, and perhaps wear his spectacles, rather than peer and squint, while protesting he has 20/20 vision. Oh he has ‘2020’ vision alright, and what happened next couldn’t be a more apt way to end 2020, after all of its rollercoaster highs, lows, twists and turns…
Generally, one finds it helps enormously if one places one’s fireworks into the ground the right way UP, as, on the stroke of midnight there was an explosion and effusion a’plenty, but NOT of the sparkly variety...oh no...instead we were treated to a breathtaking display of exploding soil, plants, shrubs and more than a ton of horse manure, splattered over all the windows and the back of our home, narrowly missing Daddy’s prized, Grade I listed, stained glass windows.
Oh well, straight out of one $hitty year...I only hope this shower of soil, shrubbery and $hit isn’t an omen, and setting the tone for the new year ahead!
And now my darlings, it’s time for me to address the elephant in the room. No, not Dumbo, but ‘Tombo’. you’re probably thinking I was never going to get to that particular point, but here we go…buckle up buttercups!
Well my dahhhling readers, it saddens me greatly to report another budding romance has withered on the vine, and has not progressed quite how one had hoped. It had all started out so promisingly - the endless, nay relentless, text exchanges, and the late night, long distance calls, where we would talk for hours about how well we had connected.
He thought that we had so much in common, were a match made in heaven, and had already told his nearest and dearest about our deep connection. Apparently, ‘they’ had already done some preliminary vetting on little ol’ me, my family and our connections and they’re very excited to meet me, just as soon as I’ve filled out their comprehensive questionnaire and credit references paperwork - once that’s signed, sealed and Fedex’d, they’ve extended a provisional invitation for moi to possibly join their exclusive little club - oh I do love a soiree, especially an uber-glam, Hollywood one.
Now as many of you will know by now, I’m more of a ‘doer’ rather than a paper-shuffling, admin type kinda gal, much to Daddy’s chagrin.
I knew that time was of the essence, which is why I forwarded that bundle of paperwork to his legal and financial folks to complete pronto, not least because I heard Daddy ranting, even before the fireworks debacle, about the dire state of the estate’s finances; and strictly entre nous, I think Daddy’s hoping to offload me to the next viable, solvent suitor by the end of this year, such is his desperation to minimise our household’s expenditure and to secure our estate’s future!
Now it’s very rare for Daddy to contact any of us much before midday, being the resolute night owl that he is; and it is even rarer for him to make contact at the weekend or public holidays. I think that goes back to his nanny-reared, nursery-based, ‘parenting-lite’ upbringing!
Anyhow, before I digress any further, I nearly choked on my eggs Benedict, when my phone rang a little after 9am on the Saturday, with an apoplectic Daddy on the other end. He was hyperventilating so much, that I feared he’d rung me by mistake, rather than our family Doctor. Apparently not - he DID want to speak to me, once he had caught his breath and could form a coherent sentence. He was quite insistent that I hadn’t filled out ANY paperwork, or put my signature to ANY of the documentation. I reassured him that I hadn’t, not least because my Mont Blanc fountain pen hadn’t been refilled with ink that week.
Daddy’s legal beagles had gone through the forms with a fine tooth comb, and it seems my budding romance wasn’t quite the rose-tinted proposition I had initially thought; and it most definitely would NOT be the lucrative dynastic pairing Daddy aspired to on my behalf, to meet his goals for our family, our estate, and our legacy.
In a nutshell, it seems that if my romance were to progress at all, that not only would I have to be ‘audited’ by Mr Cruise’s Hollywood ‘associates’, but we would have to handsomely pay for THAT privilege. Daddy launched into a vitriolic monologue about my past being so chequered and me ‘having more issues than Vogue’, that I would ‘bloody bankrupt the family with the extortionate ‘auditing fees’, before I would even be vaguely considered a suitable match for the blessed St Thomas of Cruise.
As much of an incurable romantic that I am, and would like to see ‘love win the day’, I had to be realistic here, and think of the greater good. Thankfully, fate was to give me more than a helping hand, to temper any heartbreak or regret I might have felt with the decision to cool things down.
Once Daddy had calmed down and stopped with his ranting and lecturing, one soon got to see Tom in a different and unflattering light. A few days later Tom had hit the headlines, appearing on every media outlet around the world, after a crew member leaked a recording of him having the mother of all tantrums on set!
Now I’m quite partial to a teeny tiny tantrum, in fact I’m quite famous for it, which has been well-documented here in this column, HOWEVER, this was a tantrum of epic, foul-mouthed proportions, and quite frankly the language which flew out of his mouth would have made a sailor blush. That is no way for a supposed gentleman to behave and it’s even more uncouth to do it on the street, whether you’re filming a movie or not. After such a highly-publicised monumental meltdown, there’s no way one would want to risk taking him to the Queen’s summer garden party for fear he may have another mini melt down and start screaming at Her Majesty for not standing two metres apart!
It’s safe to say (sob) one had to press the nuclear button on our brief encounter, before it self-destructed. Now all I need is for Tom to take the hint and stop bombarding me with messages, flowers and gifts. Well I quite like the gifts, so they can stay, however Mr Cruise has to go, and so it was with a heavy heart that Daddy had to call in the lawyers to get a restraining order while one had to change all contact details (leaving only the select few to receive my new details) and to take a sabbatical from social media for the foreseeable, not that that’s a great loss at the moment. If I get one more Zoom quiz invite or see ANOTHER banana bread recipe I think I might just throw a “Tomtrum” myself.
Anyway my ravishing readers, one awaits her next assignment with baited breath and I promise to divulge ALL and much more next month,
***Note to Team Heaven gals at HQ - although I’m being realistic about the slim chances of my next assignment being overseas, may I suggest we go down the reality star/influencer, Z-list celebrity route, but with oodles more class and panache, and use that old chestnut of an excuse that one simply has to travel to sunnier climes for that all important business/work trip. Even if I do say so myself, one looks quite hot in a one piece, frolicking on the beach and I can do the lip pouting, vacant look ever so well if required.
P.S. I have not sent in a photo to accompany the column this month as I want to spare Tom any anguish should he see me looking fabulous. Wouldn’t want to rub his nose in the fact that one is not a complete and utter lovelorn mess.
P.P.S. FYI, over the festive period, I had to drop off some provisions at the local hospital for a family friend. Golly flipping gosh - some seriously eligible chaps caught my eye in the hospital grounds. I quite fancy myself as a modern day Florence Nightingale. Don’t suppose you well-connected gals know of any volunteering opportunities there? I can already see myself on the arm of a dashing consultant or surgeon, and would be more than content to mop their fevered brow at the end of a tough day at the frontline, saving lives. #MyHero. I think I need to refocus, and find myself a gentleman of substance. Perhaps this will be my year?!
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