Just another abnormal day in the life of a VH addict. Selfish Jean is threatening to appear with a tape measure and it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee; after the manservant makes it obvs. Of course at Addicts Mansions we drink Curcumin Latte with an Aduna Super-Cacao chaser. A similar high to so-last-century cocaine; without the risk of widening your beak until a family of five can move in up there with their furniture.
I lay back on my SilkSkin pillow, which keeps my hair Stemm smooth, while the manservant asked nosey-parker questions about my dreams. You know that nightmare when you’re running but never quite manage to escape the strange man who’s chasing you? I turn round and punch him in the face. Let the strange man be careful.
But since Guru Gill joked that a beauty industry hitman may come after her for unleashing (Best Anti-Ageing Brand) The Ordinary, I’ve had this recurrent nightmare that she’ll be drowned in a cauldron of Squalane. Last night the God also known as Brandon was choked on Sanskrit Saponins.
But it was all just a dream! Again! Guru Gill’s still alive so I slap on Mastic Must – to protect my face from screen burn (because I’m that bitch with no pores) then read my fan mail. I’m addicted to comment, even the evil ones, so I pure loved “Porky Botox Slut” from a fat lady who claims to know me IRL; ideally not in the biblical sense. I am a fat size 6 (sounds better than a 10) and I could so be a slut, if I had the time, with my NIOD-face and not so secret admirers.
But who needs botox when you have CAIS 5%? The serum beatific Brandon claims you don’t need, if you’ve been using CAIS 1% for a year. Yeah, right. He wants to keep all the 5% for himself.
I’m not a morning person but I get up early on Mad Giveaway Day when Guru Gill gifts us something pure amazing at 11.30 and 14.30. Never mind that she juggles the day around; one minute it’s Tuesday, the next Thursday. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. That’s gurus for you.
Saves me having to do the celebration dance in my silk pants because there’s a glass wall in my apartment and in Soho there’s always somebody looking up. Instead I chased the manservant with Urgency, which I spray on everyone who annoys me; including myself. The fun was cut short because of Selfish Jean and her satanic tape measure. The gorgeous burd (Scottish for woman), who used to sew for Galliano, is making me a dress.
I’ve had some bad experiences with tailors, like the nervous man in New Delhi who made me two sizes bigger because he was scared of accidentally touching me. It’s just as well Dangerous was supervising because the tailor’s monkey liked me better than I liked him. Yes, it is important to try new things. But bestiality just isn’t on my list. Being measured isn’t as traumatic as being weighed naked with a thinster doctor saying, “Mountains don’t judge.”
Did Dr Thin mean the Bad Mountains watching through the Mayr clinic’s window? Or was it a sneaky Austrian way of saying I have a fatty? They are probs singing songs about me now in Altaussee.
Morin the Mountain. She got a fatty…
The manservant prepared a cup of Gentian Angelica Bitters to banish the bloat; while I popped two Magnesium+ tabs and accepted that there will be no Coconut Oil pancakes until Selfish Jean has taken my stats.
My stomach was as flat as your grannie’s bum when Selfish Jean cancelled so I went to Selfridges to try on jeans, declining the manservant’s offer to accompany me with a coat hanger to haul up zips. But my size zero waist wasn’t much use with what the sales doxy politely called my “porn star body”. (Selfridges-speak for fat.) “Are you sure you don’t want these?” she asked, chasing me as I flounced off; trying to avoid eye contact with a crazy lady in red knickers coming towards me.
In China red underpants are lucky, not slutty. People wear them to job interviews; but with a business suit on top. As the half-naked nutter closed in on me, I noticed she was wearing my vintage YSL Go Go boots! Imagine my surprise when I realised she was me. I’d exited the fitting room in my underwear. Again. Back in the safety of Soho, the manservant gave me two Dopa-Mind tabs to remind me not to forget to not appear in public in my pants.
He gets out his Smug Little Bitch face, and says, “This is God’s way of telling you to wear dresses.”
Brandon doesn’t care whether I wear a dress or a bowl of fruit. He’s busy with his miracles.
No sooner am I in bed with my Eye Mask than Crazy K phones begging me to “get her out”. It’s not a competition, but Crazy K always manages to win Weirdo of the Week.
I thought she’d been arrested in Mexico again. But she’s trapped in the changing room at Nudie “half in, half out” of a pair of slimmies. “And I forgot to wear knicka”.
A friend in need! I sent the manservant straight round.
Carole Morin is the author of Spying on Strange Men