Of course, I have been on hand all week should David, recently awarded the OBE for services to Police sunglasses, and his wife, Victoria, the famous solo artist as yet un-Damed, wish to seek my advice about where next to take their lifestyle. As such, no one here has been allowed to use the telephone, including Mae, who usually enjoys a lovely and generous egg-timered, cheap-rate call to her children back in the Philippines between 2am and 2.03am every Sunday. "But Missy Bwown..." she started to protest. No, Mae, I said firmly. You just never know when that call is going to come. She took this well in the end, as I knew she would, and cried for only two days solid. The rest of the family did try to appeal on her behalf, particularly soft-hearted little Keithleen: "But Mummy, Mae has seven children and their goat just got deaded." Keithleen is a girl after my own heart, a sucker for every charitable cause going... Mae! I heard the click of the receiver! Put it down! I pay top rates for Keithleen's education at Miss Wimpole's Very Private Academy and will have to have a word with them about her grammer.
I am close to both Beckhams, having first met them in the green room at the BBC, just before they were due to go on Parkinson. A nervous time for them, I imagine, as no one particularly looks forward to being meekly quizzed. No, I was not on Parkinson that night (when it comes to a meek grilling, I am more of a Gloria Hunniford person myself), but had spent the day at the BBC recording Dream Homes In The Sun Or In the Shade and had decided to pop into the green room for a glass of champagne before going home, otherwise the children might still have been up. "Your majesties," I said with a curtsy. "I am one of your most loyal subjects." Certainly, they are the most charmingly informal of couples, and wouldn't be having any of it. "For God's sake, woman," said Victoria, the famous solo artist, "get up!"
"Thank you, ma'am," I said. "I do believe I will. You are too kind, ma'am. I would have bought your last single, ma'am, if it hadn't been such a duffer, your highness."
However, having only picked at a morsel of hand-reared tofu all day, I'm afraid the champagne rather got to me and, on my way up, I tumbled headlong into David's lap where, to make matters worse, my hands got locked behind his head while my tongue got trapped in his ear. "What an unfortunate mishap," I would have said, if I'd been able to speak. David helpfully tried to disentangle me with some high-pitched, encouraging words - "oy, off" - but only managed to dislodge me so that I slipped further down, and now had my hands wedged firmly down his trousers. How embarrassing! "Yeek," squeaked David, with his usual articulacy. Mr Elton John, the other guest waiting to be meekly quizzed, was awfully sympathetic. "Could happen to anyone. Me next!"
Still, Victoria was very good - only bashed me several times over the head with her Gucci handbag - and I think we'd have had a good laugh about it, if security had not been summoned and I hadn't been manhandled from the building. It's a shame, actually, that I never got to say goodbye properly, as I wished not only to issue an open invitation to Browningham Palace, but also to do one of my low bows. Of course I watched the programme when it was broadcast and was, I admit, somewhat stunned by Victoria's opening remark about "having escaped the lunatic in the green room". But then I remembered Elton. Mad as a hatter, as I have long maintained.
The perfect home for two stars for all seasons
So, when the call comes, as it will, Spain or Italy? Spain would be nice, I think, because the golf is good and the children would look utterly divine in matching little matador outfits.
Italy might have the edge, though, because I could go ahead to find them their Dream Roman-style Villa In the Sun Or Out of It - I would even go the extra mile, should they wish for something more in Partial Cloud - and there is always La Scala, where Victoria could further her career as a famous solo artist.
Heaven knows what we're all going to do when they leave the country, although I suppose Keith and I might be available as replacements, if pressed. Indeed, as I am dictating this to Bettina, I am simultaneously working Keith's hair into umpteen little plaits. Stay still, Keith, and stop being such a nancy boy...
Frizz-free, feminine Fergie is all woman
As I understand it, my good friend David does not particularly wish to leave the country, but is being forced to do so by Fergie, who has previously been "like a father figure to him". I think I should say here that I rather object to Fergie being referred to in this way. After all, since discovering Frizz-Ease and Weight Watchers, she has done much to feminise her appearance and, if she carries on as she has been doing, I don't think it will be long before she looks almost womanly.
As for Fergie and Victoria rather disliking each other, what do you expect when one woman is a size 16 and the other is an eight? It is inevitable. Hang, on, what's that, Keith? I've got the wrong Fergie? Don't I know that Beckham is a footballer? Sometimes, Keith just doesn't know he's talking about. Mae! Was that you? Put it down now! Keith, stay still. Honestly, you'd think he would want to get the plaits finished so that we can get on with the sarongs.Reuse content