I’m on a mini break with Maddie sourcing dead glamorous graveyards she’s not going to be buried in. She wants to be burned, but with her name in big letters on a top of the range headstone in the best cemetery. The family lair in the Necropolis is too crowded. She doesn’t want to share with old skeletons.
Today we took daisies to Diaghilev on the Island of the Dead. You have to live in Venice to be buried in San Michele but Maddie says, “These damp old palazzos must go for a song.” She’s almost right. Byron’s place on the Grand Canal was on the market for less than my Soho flat.
Dangerous and I are considering Highgate Cemetery but the downside is those faux vampires with fangs and Dracula capes hired from Angel Costumes who protect the graves from drunk Goths. The top places tend to be tourist traps.
“I’d get more visitors in Paris,” Maddie said as she gulped martinis in Harry’s Bar. Mine was confiscated by the maitre d’ who said, “Not for little people.”
Maddie must have paid him. I’m 5′ 10″ in my big shoes but she still calls me The Wee C and it isn’t C for Carole. She’s cut me out of her will again because I’m refusing to go to Pere Lachaise tomorrow. I’m returning to London with no detour to Paris to leave wacky baccie on Jim Morrison’s grave.
Even the best hotels sometimes have scratchy sheets and last night I had a complimentary dermabrasion treatment and woke up two dress sizes smaller from lost skin. I had to use a whole tube of Sheald to repair my burns. Now I’m sitting in the window watching the sun rise on the lagoon, waiting until it’s time to go home and hurt the manservant who forgot to pack my black silk sheets. Dangerous says they are “a bit Fredo” so perfect for Italy.
I never thought I’d grow up to be the kind of person who travels with her own sheets but my big nose is smell sensitive and the stink of soap powder stops me sleeping. “They use industrial strength detergent to mask the stench of folk fornicating,” according to Maddie, but she is named after a temper tantrum.
There are few things I hate more than insomnia. My idea of a big sleep is 14 hours. I feel cheated if I only get ten. At least if I’m up all night I don’t need to worry about dying in my sleep. I’d prefer to be blown up and avoid being corpse bait to necrophiliac undertakers.
I’ve just woken up from a nightmare about a Russian who wants to swap bathrobes with me. The baddies in my nightmares have acne and this Russian was no exception. He needs Garden of Wisdom Niacinamide Serum, but he wants my white towelling Marilyn robe.
Enough already. Dreaming may be good for the brain but hearing other peoples’ dreams is brain-damaging. No wonder analysts are pure brilliant at Bored Face. I draw the line at keeping the manservant in my suitcase in case I need him to bore me back to sleep in the night.
Instead of counting shoes when I can’t sleep, I make a list of my secret admirers. At least I’m super chilled because I took a Sleep Tight and a Relax On this morning. Who wants to be up all night urinating? Ok you wake up with a perfect flat stomach and don’t need the manservant, his coat-hanger, and a blast of oxygen after he pulls up your zip.
But my bathroom is a sacred space. I leave my products meditating in the dark at night; undisturbed by a flushing toilet. I can’t stand people who ask, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” And when I say, “Yes”; try to walk in there!
The manservant enjoys the street level public convenience outside the Soho Ivy, so he can see who is seated in Siberia; the table with a view of the toilet. I’d like to be a fly on the wall in the Guru’s bathroom except I wouldn’t like to be a fly obvs. She’d swat me for one thing. But no one can deny how gurutastic she looks wearing ironic white skinnies in Trinny’s tub while Mr Shabir wows with his wisdom looking as chilled as my martini.
I’d like a snoop in Melania Trump’s bathroom to find out which vitamin C serum she uses. We’re both married to men called Donald but my husband isn’t funny lookin’. I bet President Trump has a wee fridge in his, with a picture of Kim Jong Fat on it to encourage him not to eat too may snacks while up all night tweeting.
Our leader Tessie May’s stash allegedly includes caffeine and hyaluronic acid to use on her (shrinking) eye bags. She must be addicted to Mr Shabir’s GoW Eye Contour Serum. Is her personal bog stocked with hard Jeyes toilet paper like the rest of Downing Street?
So. Another night is almost over and my eyes are a bit Fu Manchu’s daughter. But I love (almost) everything Chinese. I’m wearing my yellow silk pyjamas. Only the Empress is allowed to wear yellow but that’s just one of many things that’s not my problem.
Text from Maddie reminding me I’m permanently out of her will. “You’d sell your grannie if you had one, Wee C.” Has anyone ever actually sold their grannie? How much did you get for her?
At least we’ll always have Venice; until it sinks.
Listen to the Spying of Strange Men audio book read by Carole Morin and Dangerous.