Thumbing Through Glamour While Stuck in a Chimney
Being at the mercy of others this week, impaled, becalmed, stranded, weakened by crows, coexisting with nature I take consolation from the fact that I’m on the cover of Glamour…again! Rumours abound as to the next Wellington Leg Person of the Year award… tipping dangerously toward that pompous interloper Borchardt; one prefers to think that Coverboy confers as much authorial gravitas as the coveted statuette depicting Mercury Slowing designed by the Dowager Princess and her bookie.
These awards are terribly political. This year’s Snooker Award was a case in point. As a previous winner I was not eligible this time around, a rule rushed into fabrication by a faction of malcontents led by Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe. Knowing full well that the grand manor house was being fumigated, she insisted that the awards committee be invited over for drinks and eats. Needless to say, several of these VIPs were overcome by fumes, an incident that sank my candidacy in a malicious wave of overreaction.
Ah well. My work is my reward. The cover of Glamour will probably result in a deluge of calls from ueberagents but unless I locate an extension ladder in the very near future the opportunity will be lost; my one consolation is the small black and white TV the Duchess delivered….I can utliize the remote to ring in the New Year observing the happy crowds thronging the dual carriageway as the ball drops outside The Gutted Ponce…adieu, and Happy New Year. YHS, The Earl