MY LADY'S GENTLEMAN TRIUMPHS OVER A SCORPION

My Lady's-Gentleman (PA but let's not tell him) came bearing my morning jug of espresso and two glasses of full-fat milk. He was full of beans. 'I've had an exciting night,' he boasted. 'Yes, I captured a scorpion. It was flat so I thought it might be dead but...'
I sorted through my correspondence only half listening to his chattering though to be fair I added the odd: 'fantastic' and 'gosh you are so brave'. Lady's Gentlemen need to feel appreciated.
Two friends are having their birthdays today, an offer on a flat I want to buy for my daughter has been rejected, several fans are clamouring for a Book 5 in the Calypso Chronicles and several more want to audition for the film. All I see though is that my agent has "no news" on my latest book. No News!
I took a sip of coffee as my Lady's Gentleman finished his tale oblivious to my silent breakdown. 'Eventually I caught it and it's down stairs in a glass.' He seemed pleased with himself so I said. 'Well done.'
‘I thought you might want to see it,' he suggested.
'See what?'
'The scorpion.'
I just looked at him blankly. 'See it? Why? I’ve lived in Africa and Asia. I've seen hundreds of scorpions.
'It's in a glass,' he pointed out still full of pride.
'You're not Christopher Robin, darling. Just chuck it outside,' I told him and went on with my breakdown.
A few hours later I wandered downstairs where in my perfect living room of divine serenety and gorgeousness I spotted a dirty glass with a Guardian CD of Great Speeches of the 20thC on top. 'What's this?' I asked, lifting the cd up and heading towards the kitchen with the glass. That was when the huge scorpion charge up my arm. I flicked it to the floor and it raced towards me. I screamed, 'Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!' Like a mad despot.
'Stop screaming!' He yelled.
'I'll stop screaming when you slap it dead with a slipper!' I screamed back.
'I can't concentrate with you screaming!' he bellowed, and on, and on and on it went until he finally resigned himself that I would only stop screaming until when the creature was dead.
Finally I heard a thwack.
'It's dead,' he confirmed.
I stopped screaming and listened to my Lady's Gentleman hammering the slipper (a very nice pale pink satin marabou concoction from Agent P,) against the floor boards.
Now he's cooking my lunch.
We have our moments but overall I think I hired the right Lady's Gentleman for the job!

HEATHROW HAMPERS MY PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

I eventually flew out of Heathrow last night after a horrendous argument with the customs men over my Louis Vuitton carry on. They stopped me and asked me my carry on would fit into their stupid metal size-nazi box. 'Of course,' I told them insouciently and requested my PA to demonstrate.
The case more-or-less slipped into their box - well perhaps a litle less than more. 'No, it won't fit. You'll have to put it on cargo,' they insisted pointing to the handle which refused to squeeze in.
'Of course it will fit!' I told them sweetly. Positive attitude beaming from every pore of my being. Also I was wearing a madly intoxicating scent that evening and I hoped they were under my spell.
We've never seen one of those fit in,' a nearby subordinate agreed - resolutely unspellbound by my scent.
I rose to my full 5'5" (5'10" in heels actually) and glared. As a poker player I know when to fold and when to run. THis was not a time for folding. 'I have travelled with this case for seven years. We have been through thick and thin together darling. Delays, cancellations, we've been there for one another. I feel an unnatural closeness to my LVT and would NEVER put it in cargo. I'm sure your mother would agree. We, those of us who care about fine luggage can't let this happen.' I could see invoking his mother was making him waiver.
'Just make it go in!' I hissed at my Ladies Gentleman who took to the task with great alacrity (he loves these boy-scout moments of his job) forcing the case into the size-nazi box with his leg. Success!
Unfortunately once we'd forced it in, neither my Lady's Gentleman nor the chaps at customs could get it out and we had to lay the large contraption, all six feet of it, down on the floor. Dressed in my new mink, I was shoving one end, my PA and customs men were at the other, pulling for Queen and Country. Meanwhile who knows what fiends-of-ill-intent marched through to the other side.
'I was told at the store on Rodeo Drive that it was industry standard,' I insisted gamely as all three customs men rolled around the floor with my PA tugging at my case. By this stage The PA was in charge. I squirted the air with my scent Santa Maria Novella, which is made by the loveliest little nuns in Florence you ever saw. Anyway it is feverishly calming. And the poor chaps rolling on the floor needed a good dose of calm.
'I promise you it usually just slips in,' I assured them - though actually I've never been questioned before.
All of them were now red faced and madly sorry they'd ever questioned me. Passengers were stepping over them, the atmospheare was thick with desperation and rose scent. My job was to keep spirits high. Finally, after twenty minutes, four destroyed men, one who actually wept and was sent off by his senior and one slightly damaged LVT bag, my PA and I triumphantly swept into the VIP lounge where he prepared me the best Bloody Mary I have ever had. However this morning as I looked at my scratched handle, I felt really cross as I just bought the final piece in the LVT set and we look completely perfect at airports. When I told them at LVT on Bond Street all the staff were in tears. 'You poor little love,' they said. I was taken into a back room and shown new stock they had coming in. I had to buy a few new pieces just to cheer them up really.

Signing The Deal

Is there anything more splendid that the sight of a FedEx Van man knocking on one's door with a Hollywood Contract to sign. Well if there is, I don't know what it is. All the lonely days and nights writing in bed about girls and boys at boarding school, and then someone in Los Angeles "loves it"! It is too, too, bon for words.
My Lady's Gentleman read each word carefully (he's a very slow but thorough reader) before presenting the pages to me for signature.
He loves saying, "sign here" which I'm sure isn't healthy.
As I added my scrawl to the 4 copies I regreted not using a smarter pen. Off to Bond Street toute de suite! I must stop going to Cartier every time I feel depressed or happy. I blame the staff at Cartier - no one in London admires my jewels quite as much as them. They are tres, tres complimentary and make one feel that one has exquisite taste. Which one does apart from on Sundays when I go a bit skew wiffy taste wise.
'Cartier is becoming a nasty habit I must break,' I told my PA hoping he'd say something supportive like, 'Nonsense, you deserve it.'
But he didn't. He wrote down in his 'Things Tyne Must Stop Doing' pad. I bought it so he could write nice useful things in it like Tyne must stop marrying unsuitable men but he never did (he being one of the most unsuitable men that ever walked god's good earth. I wish I'd never had Smythsons inscribe the wretched thing.
As I swept through the doors of Cartier feeling all va-va-va-voomish, he passed me a note which, read. 'Tyne must stop going to Cartier - she can't afford it.She's a hard working author not a kept woman!' Which I would be by the way if I didn't spend all my money keeping him.
I must find a new Ladies Gentleman. In the meantime I am back writing in bed, this time its a book about the mayhem of relationships in our brave new on line world of Google, Facebook, Wikipedia and You Tube.

plus ça change, plus c'est la meme chose!

After my trip to Versailles to visit the home of Nancy Mitford, I became enamoured with the idea of having my own, live in cook, houseboy, and all round general great chap: a PA/valet type person.
Reading Nancy's letters from the latter part of her life made me realize that my life was lackig a PA/valet. On my return I began to interview for a man to run the less glamourous aspects of my life.
After going through all the candidates, I eventually settled on a man who, having failed dreadfully as a husband has assured me he is determined to make a grand success of himself as a valet, or Lady's Gentleman I would like to call him. I'm having his cards printed now. He has a three month trial
His new role has freed up more hours in the day for me to write, which is no doubt what led to my neck and shoulder jamming up with tension. As I ushered in another birthday yesterday (they seem to be coming thick and fast lately: year in, year out), I had to face my greatest fear. Fear Of The Old Woman I Will One Day Become.
I was better this morning, but after a few hours at my desk I soon began to hunch and ache again, which sent me diving under the duvet with my laptop.
I think I'm over the whole desk pretence at last; all that ergonomic nonsense really doesn't apply to a girl who spends every hour of her day banging away at a laptop. Being an author is not a glamourous pastime but it has perks, one of which is I am free to write anywhere I please which we all know is bed.
My Lady's Gentleman has ensconced himself on a comfy chair opposite: he's favourite pose during our marriage. He's not proving much chop as a PA. Plus ça change, plus c'est la meme chose,

I have that ache one gets for a place that has never hurt you.

I came to a mediteranian island paradise in May to hunt for a writing retreat. During our property hunt, my gorgeous agent in LA, Alicia Gordon at William Morris called with news that the producer who had made an offer to buy PULLING PRINCES wanted to chat. Pulling Princes is the first book in my teen series about an American girl at boarding school in England. It’s based on my daughter Cordelia’s experiences at her boarding school. What teen can cope with day school in Londres after all? No one, that's who, according to my sons – not that they ever tried.
If the commute doesn’t kill you, the weight of the books you have to carry, will! They assured me.
Alicia knew me way back when I turned up to pitch meetings in Vivienne Westwood heels and Cordelia clamboured about gaily on executive's desks. I like to think I'm more professional now! I just don’t know that I actually am.
I had a lovely chat with Camie at Crossroads Films and after that it was over to Alicia.
Whenever I hear Alicia's voice I miss LA. I miss the days my husband and I used to drive down Sunset Boulevard in our hired Muscle Car while listening to our tres, tres maudlin 80's CD's. I call them my eulogy CD's and all my children think that's maudlin, which it's so not!
But the music is. Oh kill me now!
Whenever I hear Alicia's voice I want to go back to Los Angeles. I get that ache one gets for a place that has never hurt you.
A few weeks later back in London I received the film offer from Crossroads Films and I bought a lovely big house. My daughter has a house full of lovely friends arriving and I’m sure I shall disgrace myself!

Wonky make-up

Being an author doesn't leave much brain space for other things. Sometimes my mind is so full of my characters and what they are up to in fiction land, I wonder I have enough room in my mudulla or brain stem thingamee to even breath. Let alone buy a house in another country and yet this is what I am endevouring to do.
It is clearly madness because if I buy a house my protaginist in my latest ouvre will have to buy a house and as she's only sixteen the whole story will collapse. Oh life what couchemar. She's meant to be turning her life around - making her real life as fabulous as her facebook life. Real Life is such merde. As are affaires de coeur I'm afraid.
I truly think that when I'm writing I should do nothing else (apart from keep breathing). It was a stupid idea to buy a house. So there I was having my photograph taken and banging on about all this flim flummery and one of my ex-husbands I never got around to divorcing or was it the ex-husband I never got around to marrying? Honestly it's not nearly as confusing as you might think if you've had a cocktail or two. Either way this chap decided to be all madly artistic or pervy depending on how you look at it. He'd love to be all ferishly artistic and wonderful but he went bald at a young age which rather limited his social life.
Yesterday he told me he fears he disappoints me. 'Darling authors are very demanding dull people who write in bed and imagine exciting vistas. Everything disapoints me darling! Sometimes even Dom Perignon if I drink too much.'
It is true. I struggle to meet basic challenges like getting out of bed. Of course I can write from bed so no excuses there. But life, where to go, what to wear, how to open mail? I am flammoxed. No wonder I can't do men. What on earth would they want with a girl like me with no skill set anyway? Nothing that's what.
Writing books is only vaguely interesting the first time a boy watches you for an hour and says "aren't you amazing that you can be so disciplined?" After the next few hours their attention and interest wains. They want to make plans. I don't. I want plans to make me.
I'm a really bad getter-readier. I can choose the perfect pair of shoes, lingerie and sunglasses but what to go with them? The entire wardrobe contents has to be emptied on my bed and then of course I can't be arsed and pull on the standard jeans and tee teamed with killer shoes and lashings of diamonds and end up doing wonky makeup in the taxi. No boy wants to go out with a girl with wonky make up. Even if she is "disciplined".

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!