A Call To Alms

An author's life is a solitary existance. Unlike celebrities we don't get papped but occasionally we aquire the odd stalker. I've had two, both girls in flat shoes that haunted my life and shattered my nerves. Mayfair is the multicultural epicentre of Londres while still managing to retain a refreshing G&T Englishness. Still, stalkers - like men with dogs on string - will sully the loveliest of neighbourhoods in search of vulnerable prey.
I wonder how many girls in nice frocks are being stalked in Mayfair? A fair few I hazard. I still have my haunts and favourite routes but now my stalker has them too and the cosy comfort of my manor has been darkened by shadows and chills.
Stalkers as a breed wear flat shoes. And flat shoes have no place in Mayfair. I want them banned. I've written to the mayor repeatedly on this and other matters. But Ken Livingstone - a wearer of flat shoes himself - is no friend to the heeled girls of the Mayfair community. Or to the community of girls in general so I hear. Girls to Ken are mere recepticles for his man juice (I read that on a loo door in disreputable bar in Soho so it must be true.)
Alas, politics and heels have always been at odds. Margaret Thatcher was a noble and notable exception but generally speaking handbags and politics don't mix. One needs royalty for that.
Meanwhile thanks to Ken's lax attitude to flat shoes, Mayfair is no longer the tranquil safe haven of the vulnerable genteel it once was. So where does that leave the vulnerable Louboutin wearing Mayfair authoress? Skulking in the deep southern state of Belgravia that's where. But I shall be back. Mayfair remains my manor, my hood, my home town. The Mayfair Massive are my bloods.
Hang in there Mayfair! For while we await a new more compassionate mayor in Boris Johnson, I shall take a brief sojorn in Belgravia but I shall be back, like Scotts on Mount Street I shall return; refreshed and ready for a glass of champagne and a half dozen on the half shell, just as soon as my stalker finds a new victim. That's what the police told me -"eventually she'll get tired of you and find a new girl in heels to torture" Charming! Meanwhile, like nicely frocked girls in heels with good manners across London, I'm voting for Dear Old Boris Johnson!