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 is going through quite a hellish detox at the mo, having gone ever-so-slightly over-the-top indulging in all things naughty but very, very nice, and no matter how much one’s body is crying out for a fix of something decadently naughty, one has to be strong and ride it out!

Just one, not so teensy weensy problem tho, as I am simultaneously detoxing from alcohol, chocolate, sweets, cakes, biscuits, pudding, junk food, shopping AND sex! But I do think that this gives you an indication of just how seriously fabulous one’s Christmas and New Year celebrations were…

Thankfully, one’s loyal maid and confidante, Maria, has been an absolute tower of strength, lending me support, love and the occasional jolly good telling-off, in firm but fair measures!

One has been banished from the following dens of iniquity and temptation: the kitchen, Daddy’s study, the wine cellar, vineyard, or anywhere else which has bountiful goodies, bite-sized or otherwise...

Also on our list of confiscated items is one’s wallet, and Maria has had the good sense to restore all of one’s phones and tablets etc. back to factory settings, so there are no stored bank card details or passwords for one to accidentally access!

Maria is also vetting one’s calls, messages and emails - incoming AND outgoing - to ensure one doesn’t slip away for any clandestine liaisons; and there is a total ban on any contact with cousin Pierre, last seen via Zoom on new year’s eve, awash with alcohol, surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous gals he affectionately calls his hareem - step aside Simon Cowell and a hearty congrats on your engagement, tho I thought I had first refusal - rocking out at the chateau…

Daddy says Pierre is a bloody bad influence and that if I had any bloody sense in this teeny tiny brain of mine that I would keep contact to a bare bloody minimum, unless of course I happen to be travelling to the chateau to oversee any of his wine or champagne deliveries. Bloody hypocrite!

Anyhow, I digress…

So you’re probably itching to know just how good a festive season I had. Well most of it’s rather hazy or hush hush, much of which cannot possibly be put into print - well certainly not before Daddy’s lawyers give it the once over - unfortunately, one is rather embarrassed to say that I can’t quite face them either, having performed a lap dance (amongst other things) for their new partner who just happened to swing by with some paperwork to be signed urgently on Christmas Eve!

Mummy and Daddy were out, doing the last of their Christmas shopping and one was trying out one’s new, let’s call it an exercise pole shall we?! It’s not for exotic pole dancing, after all, one does still have some decorum, although one has been reliably informed it does wonders for the thighs, one’s flexibility, not to mention absolutely marvellous for building up one’s stamina!

I was halfway through a complicated manoeuvre when Maria came to inform me that I was needed urgently; I must say one’s eyes lit up and the adrenaline coursed through my body when I laid eyes on the most gorgeous beefcake standing before me. Santa’s little helper? Don’t mind me if I do ‘elf’ myself…

I looked him up and down - my heart was thumping. He returned the compliment, looking me up and down, taking in every last curve which was encased in the most darling Lycra leotard, hungrily licking his lips. The poor chap looked famished, and so with a sharp intake of breath, I took it - and him - upon myself to jingle some bells with gusto. Well, what else can I say? We’re all grownups and consenting adults around here… He had the workout of his life. And it’s not just Santa who would wake up Christmas morning with an empty sack…

Things did become a tad awkward tho as he got dressed, in a feeble attempt to recover some composure, with him mumbling something about urgent paperwork, and needing to arrange another appointment with Daddy asap; we walked as swiftly as we could, with our tremulous limbs, from the games room.

Dare I say it, but it’s been a while since the brown and the pink have been so expertly ‘handled’ on that table. Deft wrist action has a lot to answer for...

In our haste for the exit, I realised he had forgotten his tie, which I quickly retrieved and unknotted - that Shibari sabbatical I took in Japan has got me into, and out of, all sorts of japes and scrapes! I wonder what it would be this time?! My answer was to come a lot sooner than expected…just as he was hastily tying it, in walked Mummy and Daddy.

The look on his face was priceless; he was more crimson than Rudolph’s nose, and rather discombobulated, especially when Daddy muttered “bloody hell Dita, can you not behave just for bloody once? How many times do I have to tell you to keep your hands off the bloody staff and stop bloody seducing them? Bloody libidinous women! I wonder if our vet would neuter you, or have you bloody $hagged him too?!! Harumph”

Well one made her excuses and swiftly left for the sanctuary of one’s boudoir to sulk. A good old-fashioned sulk requires oodles of champers, Belgian chocolates, and a Zoom with the glossy posse to discuss in intimate detail the events of that afternoon...

Fortunately, one was forgiven by the following morning, and I’m thrilled to say that Mummy and Daddy were most generous this Christmas as one's stocking was overflowing with Bond Street’s finest. And the apres-lunch presents exceeded any expectations. How many gals get given unlimited access to a private jet for 12 months?! Ooh, just imagine the fun I can have with that?! Hello world - you are my oyster once more!

After that, food- and drink-wise, it was all downhill and one hedonistically embraced anything and everything that was on offer over the festive period. At one stage I looked heavily pregnant, which sorely tested one’s couture, but not even that minor discomfort would stop the bacchanalian binge I was hell-bent on.

It all came to a head on new year’s day when one couldn’t get out of bed. Not only did I have *the* hangover from hell, but my belly was so bloated with the mother of all ‘food babies’ one couldn’t physically move to get up. Maria was called to assist and give me the old heave-ho off the mattress, and that was the exact moment when I realised that such hedonism could not continue.

One would have to start by getting in some serious exercise, in ALL of its wondrous forms and contortions. I knew that all those yoga and tantra workshops would bring their own reward one of these days...

Now that my ravishing readers is all I can commit to telling you at this point in time, but rest assured that there were a LOT more wild shenanigans during the course of the festivities and hopefully, one day soon (once the scars have healed and reporting restrictions are lifted!) one will be able to share them with you, without incriminating family, friends OR oneself!

So it’s back to the detox grindstone for little ol’ moi, as I try to get this body back to peak fitness and flexibility, ready to tackle the year ahead. So come on 2022, let’s see what you’ve got in store for this Lady.

Toodle pip,

 

xx

***Note to Team Heaven HQ***

After such festive excesses, I need to get some balance in my life - I hear there are all sorts of darling health spas to get a gal back on track, so if you’re wondering where to send me for my next assignment…hint hint…

This year I’m going to focus on MY mind, body, and soul. No more futile lusting over far flung gingers. Time to focus on me. Rather auspiciously, it’s the [Chinese new] year of the Tiger, which symbolises making big changes, risk-taking, and adventure. Duhhh, hello, did somebody call my name?! Lady P. At your service! Make this our best year yet gals - mwah, xx