I was so pleased to hear that my dear, dear friend Heather Mills-McCartney is to have a baby. I adore Heather, whom I first met, I think, three years ago at the Mirror Pride of Britain Awards, which is where she, in turn, first met Sir Paul. Indeed, I like to think I even played something of a role in their romance, as I was actually seated on Sir Paul's table that night, and no sooner did the conversation turn to "Lady Brown" having the most heavenly ring to it, than he was off to the next table where Heather happened to be sitting. Of course, sensing what was in the air, I would have left them to it had I not squeezed in between them. And then, when Heather was called up to present the award for bravest schoolchild with the most heart-warming "999" tale involving a mum in a diabetic coma, I did nothing but express my utmost admiration for her.
Her early life, as is well known, was no bed of roses. Indeed, as I told Sir Paul, it was probably more a sad, plastic tub of neglected, almost-dead petunias from Homebase, and, at the end of the day, you do have to think: is this the sort of one-legged person you would trust with an £800m fortune? In the end, the great Piers Morgan himself personally escorted me to a waiting limo. "But I haven't presented the award for bravest schoolchild with the most heart-warming artificial hip!" I protested. Your work is done, he told me. Say what you like about Piers, but he knows a good and efficient worker when he sees one.
Certainly, I do admire Heather enormously, particularly as she is something of a charity activist after my own heart. As it happens, I, too, not only believe that landmines are totally unacceptable, but would also go one step further (on those occasions when it is safe to do so, obviously) and say that they are hopeless for the complexion, almost up there with not drinking your two litres of water a day, and mistakenly believing Crème de la Mer is not worth the cost. A little, remember, goes a terribly long way. It is not necessary to apply it thickly, unless you have £800m, in which case it is no more than vulgar showing off.
Of course, I had Bettina dash off a quick, handwritten note to Lady McCartney: "M'lady, many congratulations on your wonderful news. Please don't listen to any of the nasty gossip, particularly about Wings. I'm sure the general public will come round in time and appreciate 'Mull of Kintyre' for the beautiful classic it is. If Stella is offish, it is only because she is still grieving for her mother. This is to be expected. Give her time and then, only then, cut her off without a penny and refuse to have anything to do with her.
"As a personal favour to a friend, I would be most happy to decorate the nursery for you. I enclose a copy of Denisella's Guide to Decorating Baby's Nursery, which is due to be published in the autumn. In particular, I would like to draw your attention to the gorgeous hand-painted Arabian Nights mural (p56), which, I fancy, might appeal, as well as the precious-gem mobile (p66), plus the handmade, organic, 100 per cent vegetarian sleigh-shaped cot (p78). This cot can be made in any material of your choice. Might I suggest the same kind of wood as your leg, so that baby feels close to mummy at all times?
"Of course, I do not expect my usual design fee, but as my own son, Roman, is particularly into pirates at the moment, would ask that as it's his birthday next week, you might consider stepping in as Long John Silver. Please don't worry about bringing a magnificent galleon, as we have hired the Golden Hinde as well as a large portion of the Atlantic Ocean, both of which are being delivered for his party on Monday. If you could bring your own parrot, that would be helpful, though. Yours, Denisella Brown.
"PS: Who among us isn't really embarrassed by what we wore in the Eighties?"
I have since shown the note to Keith, who was, as usual, staggered by my generosity. "Not the cot, Den," he said. He's worried as I haven't patented the design yet. Sometimes, I accept, I do let my heart rule my head, but what can I do? It's just the way I am.
Children?s art? There?s only one place for it
Thankfully, Mrs Englebert-Dubois, who runs Kensington & Chelsea Nannies, where I have a Double Gold account, has come up trumps with a lovely new Day Nanny for us. Her name is "Day Nanny", and she interviewed very well, agreeing wholeheartedly with all the house rules: spills to be avoided at all costs; bibs to be worn at all times; meals to be eaten over the bath, if possible; no finger-paintings taped to the fridge because, as much as it pains me to say it, Roman and Keithleen have not inherited my artistic gifts and their pictures are heartbreakingly rubbish. No sense of colour, even. Naturally, I do not tell them as such, and while I can't coo "wha' a lubberly dwawing" as Mae does because that would be dishonest, I do always try to hold my head at a proud, maternal angle while feeding their latest efforts into the shredder.
Anyway, as I said, the interview went very well, and Keith was as happy as I was, even though he only asked her the one question he always asks our possible nannies: are you on the Pill? Keith takes such a wonderful, holistic approach to people, right down to the last detail, which is why, I think, I love him almost as much as I could love a "Sir" with an £800m fortune.Reuse content