This week I took delivery of six glorious, soft haired chickens. The most important thing, of course, was the naming ceremony. After checking with Michaelangelo (my dog) and Saint Squeakilicious (chief mouser) I called the Vicar for a christening of the chicks who are now known as:
Milli, Vanilli, Vermicelli, Tinklinson, Pylonsicle, and Pog.
On Tuesday I had to reach for the brandy when a ghastly bank statement landed on my beautiful cashmere welcome mat. It seems I have gone into the red again by over £2,500,000. I really don't know how. It can't be anything to do with having bought a brand new Aga, SMEG fridge, 5 pairs of Christian Louboutins, one Lamborghini, and the entire Maria Grachvogel 2011 collection (that will stop that skinny bitch Mrs Beckham getting her hands on any! Ha ha!).
My hapless little female brain simply cannot compute these things. As a feminist, I insist that a man do my accounts for me!
Last time I mentioned my impoverished situation the editor bollocked me after readers sent in donations, which was inappropriate (apparently). So this time I decided to seek financial assistance the proper way, with an “Eye Need” advert in that charitable journal, Private Eye. This is my ad:
Mad as a bat shit witch, professional lunatic and domestic goddess seeks £2 million to save mansion, barn, 17 cats, 4 dogs, 3 horses, 25 sheep, 6 chickens, 4 donkeys, 15 acres of land, plus 26,000 bats, one specialist psychic animal behaviourist / horse whisperer, confidante / sister and myself from financial ruin. Donations to: The Mad Bat Sanctuary, Brushford. Seeking philanthropic eccentric millionaire, preferably a committed vegan like myself.
At least my love life is hotting up! Just when I had gotten used to sneakily two timing the Rock Star with the Famous Actor, several more suitors have turned up, almost miraculously, just when the death knell was sounding for my column. How convenient.
Now, I have decided to line up The Totally Peculiar Suspects and make sure I get a sperm sample off all of them pronto. The
RS (the Rock Star) now he is a wonderful chap but I have severe doubts about his ability to father a child, even with the assistance of IVF. He already told me 20 years of booze and narcotics have done the same damage to his teabags as his eyebags, so much as I love him dearly I will have to find another donor for the the “Mad as Bat Shit Blair Witch Cloning Project”.
FA (the Famous Actor) is an absolute caddish skallywag who has apparently already fathered one love child out of wedlock (sometime between seeing me and playing golf he found time to biff some other bird – the swine!). He may well be the most unfaithful, uncommitted boyfriend ever but at least he has some juice in the tank.
MoS (the Man of Steel) who is hopelessly in love with me. He is tall, dark, handsome, totally loaded and always comes to my defence. He is also an international man of mystery, as reports to his precise physiognomy vary.
TB (The Boffin) who I'm sure you all remember from my previous diaries, the one who proposed to me in New York, silly! TB is a television presenter and expert on inter-galactic space travel and a complete D-ream boat handsome devil. He must be fertile, simply must!
PP (Postman Pete and his Black and White Sheep) who delivers all the hate mail and death threats personally by hand, and always stops to give me a little hug and peck on the cheek. I am convinced he is in love with me, it must be soooooo exciting for him having a celebrity living in the village.
ME (My Ex) who I found out through
I have invited them all to my Bonfire-Work Night of the Vanities Special and intend to trick them all, one at a time, into the bathroom, into surreptitiously providing a specimen.