Lady P - June 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.
My darling ravishing readers, one has had *THE* most stressful month, with tensions reaching fever pitch (no Euro 2020 football pun intended), however, things are back on the up and up, and everything is calming down, so to speak...
A potential catastrophic social crisis was averted, thanks to a prudent delay in one’s response. Thank Gucci my nerves are once again on an even (ish) keel!
It all kicked off after that Zoom call last month with Boris Johnson; he’d kindly tasked one of his minions to help us navigate the current Covid rules.
After surviving his shameless flirting and effusive promises of keeping in touch, one was mightily shocked to receive a ‘save the date’ card for his and Carrie’s nuptials next year. Drats! This meant one would have to swiftly reciprocate by extending them an invite to attend the Dickies, which could go one of two ways:
Either the awards would become *THE* hottest ticket in town with them in attendance, resulting in me being inundated with requests, elevating one’s social status into the stratosphere.
The Dickies completely bomb thanks to guests cancelling as they have no desire to be in close proximity to him and his ‘intended’. He really is like Marmite...you either want to indulge or stay the hell away!
Thankfully, after deciding to sit on the problem for a few days mulling it over - invite in haste, repent at leisure as they say, etc. etc. - one was immensely relieved to discover that the happy couple had gone and got hitched in secret over the weekend, so the prospect of having to send them an invite magically evaporated into thin air. Voila!!!
However, one is still on tenterhooks when one recalls the old adage of “when one marries one’s mistress, he creates a vacancy”. I do hope the old Lothario doesn’t have any designs on me for THAT position!
I’m reliably informed in that ‘department’, that it’s "like having a wardrobe fall on top of you with the key sticking out!” Now he won’t be the first to have that plaudit, and he won’t be the last! But what is it with these portly, philandering politicians?!?
Daddy said it was a bloody relief to read about something else, as everyone is bloody sick to the back teeth of talking about bloody Covid, bloody lockdowns, bloody jabs, or, heaven forbid bloody Brexit! Oh how everyone longed for the good old days when sex, drugs, rock & roll, bloody big inheritances and obscene wins on the stock exchange were the hot topics which monopolised conversation. Daddy is such a grump!
Anyhow, I digress…
Back to my beloved Dickies, as one had called in the party planners who were doing a magnificent job of making sure every last detail was meticulously checked.
The invites had been sent out, and you know how discreet I am, so I couldn’t possibly say who was on the guest list, tho’ suffice to say we, had a heady mixture of rock royalty, stars of the small AND big screen, and even some minor royals who would be rubbing shoulders with Britain's most notorious and elite.
Next on one’s wish list was an ice sculpture of the male form, after all this was to be a full blown, red carpet event, and any event of note has an ice sculpture. As these awards are in celebration of the male appendage in its finest form, what better way to honour it than with a large ice Dickie?!
After several heated discussions with the sculptor we finally agreed that a big icy d*ck would probably be inappropriate, whereas an arty male nude would be infinitely more sophisticated, and much more in keeping with such a prestigious event.
The sculptor insisted on a trial run, with a real live model - welllllll then; when opportunity knocks like that, one can only respond to a “knock knock” such as that with a coy “well helloooo, who’s there a’knocking?” So who was I to argue?!
The mere thought of having a scantily clad ‘buff’ male languorously stretching out over a chaise lounge whilst I offered my critique on preferred, optimum poses, was *THE* perfect way to spend an afternoon.
I instructed Maria to set out a not so modest champagne afternoon tea, whilst I sat back to enjoy the view whilst delicately nibbling on wafer-thin, crustless sandwiches, before gobbling up the mini clotted cream scones. Sheer good taste and manners stopped me from devouring the banana sundae Maria had sneakily snuck in on the tea tray…
Meanwhile, the sculptor and his muse were locked in a heated debate about the thermostat for the room.
The sculptor was adamant it should be on the lowest chill setting; after all, he was working with ice and didn’t want the ice block prematurely melting. Whereas our model - let’s call him ‘David’, as a nod to Michelangelo - was concerned that his ahem, ‘assets’ wouldn’t be at their most impressive in a semi frozen environment, and insisted on cranking the thermostat up, so he could ‘satisfy his full potential’...
Forever the peacemaker, I brokered a half-decent compromise, whereby I escorted ‘David’ to the orangery to defrost him a tad. After which I handed over to the sculptor an impressive array of candid Polaroids taken from a variety of angles.
Let’s just say, my guests will marvel at the aerodynamics and practicalities of the vodka ice luge which will take pride of place on the night. Would one call that taking one for the team, a perk of the ‘job’, or forever the dedicated perfectionist? Or all of the above?!
Once I had quite literally finished blowing hot and cold, it was time for another checklist checkup. Gosh, there are so many details to sort and not enough hours in the day. Thankfully most tasks had been completed including menu choices, table and marquee decor, the awards themselves which are under wraps and lock & key, not to mention the dreaded seating plan which needs to be executed with great precision so as not to offend one’s guests.
Apparently, where you are seated reflects your social standing and (relative) importance in the world. This was where I would wield my power, and anybody who had been spiteful or plain bitchy to me would be relegated to the cheap seats at the back. Revenge is a dish best served cold and nobody puts Dita in the corner and lives to tell the tale! Step this way to social Siberia sweetie...
The last thing on one’s to do list was an outfit which would be so spectacular that guests and media across ALL platforms would be talking about it for weeks and months to come. Note to self: One must start thinking of some catchy hashtags to make sure the event goes viral!
My outfit is being custom made by a darling designer friend who totally understands one's bountiful curves and how to show them off in all their curvalicious glory. If you’ve got it, flaunt it as Mummy always says.
Anyhow, I need to stop waffling now or one could inadvertently reveal some of the best kept secrets and spoil the wonderful surprises that are in store for the lucky attendees.
So my darling readers, I bid you goodbye and ask you to please keep your fingers crossed for the Dickies. Daddy nearly ruined the whole build up by raining on my parade, saying the awards could be delayed yet again if bloody Boris changes his bloody mind.
Naturally, this lead on to one of his infamous mini rants, with words like p*ss up and brewery getting bandied about. This triggered another panic attack, necessitating ANOTHER visit from one’s life coach and his therapeutic healing hands. Thankfully, one’s breathing has just about returned to normal; Daddy has been banished by Mummy to his study, and is under strict orders not to come out until he can promise to play nice and keep a civil tongue in his head. I fear he may be there for some time...
**Note to Team Heaven HQ**
My unrequited transatlantic love has taken another dent. I see that my ginger prince has become a father once more. Forever the realist, I really do think it’s time to extinguish the torch I have been carrying, and place my affections on ice. And I don’t mean the ice luge of delicious ‘David’ either. Or maybe I do…
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