ONLY A DREAM

ONLY A DREAM, YES IT WAS, YES IT WAS

You must forgive me darling, as I've been to West Africa and became lost in its despair. The work was daunting to the extent that my exhaustion was a comfort to me. I haven't written for the Post in months as there were things so evil I was witness to, events so horrific and pain so tragic that my love and passion for all things, yes darling, even writing became nonexistent. I no longer cared for, as the American's say, "The ballgame of life". I lost Andrea, the gloves, the silliness of all the people who had cluttered my mind and perhaps at times had charmed me. The tragedy of My Africa left me standing cold in it's heat and oppression. I cried a bloody Sunday every waking dirty day.

My heart is worn.

Darling, I'm on the train headed for Spain in all I have left of my once dashing, elegant and extrodinary outfits for the parties and gayness of life. My dirty jodhupurs, scuffed brown boots and favorite starched white shirt are all that's left of what I once smiled in. Well, you know me, despair may overcome me, but my love for the finest of white shirts will always remain.

I may hop over to the isle of Ireland, weather permitting.

BUT WHERE IS WHAT I STARTED OUT FOR SO LONG AGO? AND WHY IS IT YET UNFOUND?

OH MY GAWD! The Duchess of Winchester had a Wildcat 22 which is a rifle. For gosh sakes darling, my little pistol looks like a beautiful pearl accessory in comparison and certainly doesn't look the least bit dangerous. I think the Duchess has cold in her blood. The damn rifle is so bloody long she keeps it in her trunk. I felt so innocent and she seemed so dangerous. The first club we ran into, yes darling, ran right straight into as the Duchess doesn't use the brake. She stops her car upon impact. Well, we stopped at the Tiger Tiger Club when she smashed us up to the brick lined garden out front, which caused only a moment's discomfort when a man calling himself the maitre' d came running out to see the commotion. Darling, truly it lasted no more than a moment as the Duchess simply went to the back of her top down and pulled out her rifle and hushed the little maitre' d by asking him if the Tiger Tiger Club was a hotel. When he responded that it most certainly was not the Duchess cocked her gun and said, "Well then, you're most certainly out of line, but in mine, as a maitre' d is the master of a hotel not a night club." And with that darling, he said to us, "Welcome to the Tiger Tiger Duchess Winny and Lady Jacqueline." The woman is bloody nuts I tell you, but damn good fun and wild with spunk. And she's quite the dresser, much like ME. Though I think my clothes frame me in a much more fashionable way. And moreover, I find my gun much more attractive than hers.

Once inside the Tiger Tiger I had the best of fun with Lapo Elkann, remember darling, he's the son of Fiat heiress Margherita Agneli? Well, the two of us danced a magnificent pas de trois with a chair while the Duchess and Count Gian Luca Passi de Preposulo wished they were us. Oh, it was rare.

We next found our way crashing into the Zoo Bar & Club where Francis Bacon stories of his patronage there are legion. That wore on me some, as after the third I was done with short essays about a dead man's drinking. Don't get me wrong, as I do so find Francis a fascinating figure whose lover was a reformed burglar named George Dyer who tried to commit suicide at the Algonquin Hotel by swallowing a handful of pills; wherein once word got out the authorities promptly had Francis and George flown back to England. No? Truly? Yes, darling, truly. Flown right straight out of the States and back to the Queen. It's told that on being scolded by Lizbeth for his scandalizing behavior he replied to her, "Death can be so life-enhancing." And you know how his little tragedy of life ended, don't you? Francis had a death-haunted brush for years to come. Just look at his most fascinating paintings of all. They were done after George finally was successful in killing him/her self. Whichever gender he/she truly was. I haven't the slightest. But, I would most definitely conclude that George had an intense personality that played to Francis's creative mind, you know?

Anyhow, darling, I shant say the Duchess and her gun scared me, as I so love a good blast. However, her crashing ways in stopping a car caused me to have the most dreadful of crick in my neck this morning. I so wished to stay on with Lizbeth a few days, but Antonio dialed me this morning with news that I must hurry to Paris as a cablegram from Mr. Long was received at the HOTEL DE CRILON last evening requesting, in earnest, that I return his Penis Song. Well, damn darling, didn't I toss that in the trash with my shoes? I can't remember. That was so weeks ago and what fergodsakes is so urgent about a penis song when I've got bigger things I need to address. Like who slipped that wonderful gun into the Martin and gave me the beautiful red ribbon? And most importantly, who was the divine person who found my gloves and placed them in my Kelly handbag? I do so want to give my thanks for such a kind act.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

I most likely will be expected to charm the Inspector and like; identify couture outfits bloody dead and all. Which as you know, I'm extremely adept at doing: Charming and identifying. But, right this very moment I have no intention of moving as I'm placed horizontal with an ice pack behind my head.

Oh, pleasure, pleasure!
What else should bring one anywhere?

Oh darling, I'm so rot with having to amuse everyone that I'm longing for Côte d'Ivoire; to sit by the sea and lie under the sun in my sleeping Africa. The very essence of romance is uncertainty, you know? So I find it best that I let everyone's worries, needs and pleas be left to linger while I put up my feet. I only am in need of an aspirin is all.

Let them all wait in speculation, perhaps then they will see how romantic a mystery like Me can be.

Oh, pleasure, pleasure, I'm going home with nothing more than ME.

"I dreamed of going to Africa....then, one day, it happened..."

I'm off!!!

-Jacqueline

LONDON TOWN

Oh, darling. The Queen can be such a bore on a Friday night. I did, I did so try to paint with her, but I can't do horses. And all she drinks is tea.

The Countess of Winchester has come to save me and we're taking her old top down to see London Town. Darling, she knows all about guns seeing as how she's from the Winchester family and all. I told her all about mine and she's bringing hers and we're going to see if we can find any trouble.

Two girls loaded in a top down. I simply can't wait. I wonder which of us will be Thelma and the other Louise? Don't tell Andrea as I'd hate for him to know of how much fun I'll be having without him.

-Jacque

POSTCARD OF PERFECT HEALTH

Wherever should a happy girl begin, most especially when she can't stop?
I caught some little fish, some big fish and splashed about the coast, darling, all to my delight. Andrea says that you can feel quite guilty about the past, apprehensive about the future, but only in the present can you act. The ability to be in the present moment is a major component of mental wellness. And my darling, Andrea being a man of many wise words tells me that I am the healthiest girl he's ever come upon in this respect.

Well, I do love my moments, but how could I not? They're all so splendid that I'd be a fool to let a one of them skate by and me miss a beat. It was so sincere of him to find me a healthy delight, but looking at my beautifully tanned feet with painted red toenails in these white Pucci sandals seems to me the epitomey of health, glowingly so, you know? Exuberance and elation in my tanned little toes.

And darling, Andrea simply had exhausted all my pleasures that I felt it time to bid him farewell and reach for my next moment: My Queen's horses in distress in N. Ireland. So, with a kiss in a rush I promised to meet up with him in France so we could continue on with Inspector Clouseau who seems insistent to finish his story and I find it the least I could do for such an odd little man. He's such the pestor, you know? Fiona and a brother are dead, but he just can't seem to let it go. Perhaps he's got his heart's sleeve on receiving a medal of some sort from the King's Ms. Bruni for his tenacious attitude in cracking his first big case. The poor dear, I doubt he's aware that the King is a fraud and Ms. Bruni's to be found at the shopping mall. Oh, wouldn't that be the laugh if she were to pin him at the top of the escalator on her way down.

Certainly every man deserves his moment in the sun and seeing as how the Inspector tried so to reach me on the Amalfi coast and received no invitation to join me by the sea, as I simply refused anything that spoke of the past or future, I feel compelled somewhat to make the little man happy. His cablegrams have become rather annoyingly tart and pathetic in that I believe he finds my behavior obnoxious in denying him the luxury of lounging beside me, which seems to have caused him to become quite frustrated with me. Anyhow, he still must wait as my focus is on the racetracks, which I seem to have solved with no difficulty and much grace. If only he were as good as ME. But, then I'm not looking for a medal now am I? That always puts a twist on things in a most distressful way. People seem to go bloody mad looking for their moment instead of absorbing the one their in.

Lizbeth and I joined for tea after my survey of her beloved horses' plight. I explained to her in simple terms that the racing industry needed only a 69 billion bailout to stop the horses from dying and the commoners from eating them. She found it a swell idea. We both agreed that should gambling industries such as banks receive bailouts then so should the horses. Sixty Nine billion in bales of hay. Smashing idea, isn't it darling? Bailouts for bankers, baleouts for horses. Seems quite fair to me. Everyone is happy with a BALEOUT OF HAY, even the jockeys. Gambling is gambling, whether it be the bankers' office or the horses' track. It just wasn't so hard, you know. Just a bit of common sense is all.

Oh, darling, how I'd love to go on and on with all the wonderful things I've been up to and down to, but I haven't the time as I've got to type my story on the corona no. 3 and wire it to the Post before Lizbeth and I take in entertainment this evening. I think we'll spend the time in her chambers painting landscapes of horses all the while laughing over my stories of all the horses' asses I had to interview to come to my conclusion that a bailout would solve all the world's problems. Well, darling, I might just be as smart as Mr. O. How we're going to change the world and all, you know?

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But whats puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

As he now obviosly agrees with my assesment on that waterboarding fiasco that he let run wild before he reined it in. But don't say you read it in my Post article, for I'd hate to show that I was out of the starting gate first. I'm not a gambler. Just a simple girl with a bit of common sense. I'll never understand why people get themselves all worked up over nonsense. Oh, because they're the neurotics sitting behind you, in front of you and to the left of you. You simply ignore them is all and go about your day, you know? Otherwise you'll get caught in their trap of insanity which will put you to taking antidepressants to deal with what garbage they've thrown on your shoulders. Simply throw it over.

The public would never know to look at her, but damn my Queen's rather savy and has quite the perfect sense of humor. She just doesn't much care for children is all. And where's the harm in that? If not raised with certain detachment they become quite the little beasts and grow up to stamp about demanding attention. How dreadful, but it's too true. All one must do is look at the closest neurotic adult sitting next to you.

I'll dash you again as soon as I can. Please do forgive my lack of communication. I promise it shall happen again, as life's so big and simply just never ceases to amaze me.

Darling, darling, darling, you'll never believe where my leather gloves turned up. In my Kelly handbag wrapped round my loaded gun tied with the red ribbon from the Aston Martin's antenna. I didn't spill a word of it to Andrea as I wish to have all the secret developments drop splendidly in my lap before I begin the fun of figuring all of it out or in or in or out or in or out or in and out.

-Jacqueline

postscript:
We're goin to Habana, yeah, yeah, yeah.

SUSPICIOUS MINDS

Darling, I simply had to leave all suspicions behind as I can't have any sort of fun with doubts lingering on a line right straight in MY WAY. And I refuse, adamantly so, not to enjoy myself. Andrea and I had the best time ever yesterday running through castles in the rain.

On our way to Tuscany it began to rain, only slightly so that I implored Andrea to leave the top of the car down, as nothing's quite so thrilling as doing 100 in the Martin with a bit of rain on your face. In any event, when you're driving so fast the rain doesn't seem able to catch up with you, which makes for the best sort of getaway.

Were caught in a trap.
I can't walk out.
Because I love you too much baby.
Why can't you see what youre doing to me.
When you don't believe a word I say?
We can't go on together with suspicious minds.

Darling, once we reached the castles I was so happy to find no OUT-OF-TOWNERS were brave enough to weather the rain. Andrea and I had the grounds to ourselves. It was the loveliest of sport, what with Andrea chasing me in and out of castle corridors and us laughing so hard when he did find me that we fell to the floors in puddles of joy. Most of the castles are left without tops in certain places, so that the outdoors is in, you know? Perhaps from a war or just a matter of time. Gawd, does it not rather remind you of Fiona somewhat? In and out, out and in? No matter, as I've decided not to let the memory of her bad behavior spoil another day that should always be nothing more than about ME.

Damn darling, but I loved that rain.

Yes, we are in Italy not Spain, but we couldn't but help ourselves from singing in harmony:

Eliza, hurricanes hardly happen.
How kind of you to let me come Henry!
Now once again, where does it rain?
Eliza, on the plain! On the plain!
Henry, and where's that blasted plain?
Eliza, in Spain! In Spain!
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!

We left the Martin in shelter and spent the night in a Queen's bed! And this morning we awoke to sunshine and are racing to the Amalfi coast just south of Naples. Andrea says we'll take the ferries to get from one fishing village to another. Yes, he is going to teach me to fish! Is that not the most smashing of grand ideas? He's quite full of them, you know? Grand ideas.

How ever could one bother themselves with world affairs, murder and the sort when there are boys in fast cars wishing to show you the world?

Let's don't let a good thing die. When honey, you know I've never lied to you.
Mmm yeah, yeah...


Arrivaderci-

-Jacqueline

THE OUT OF TOWNERS

Darling, the Italian newspapers contain nothing but article upon article of Fiat's latest decision in hitching their last star to Amercia's fat cars. I would conclude that if Gianni Agnelli still were alive, he'd cut the moon from its hinge and watch the sky light up in oversized headlights - without him. Everyone's talking about that disastorous agreement he made eons ago with America's General Motors that progressively let the American company court Fiat. Sadly, the Italian's feel they will watch their beloved Fiat die a slow death at the hands of Mr. O. and men in bad suits or would that be suits of bad men?

TRAGIC MISTAKE

What might at the time have seemed like a wise if not genius business decision on his part, I'm afraid that poor Gianni never envisioned Americans would become so fat that four of them in a Fiat would leave it going no where fast, let alone anywhere slow. With over 60% of American's overweight, they most certainly are looking for economical cars, but not ones which are small. There's a difference, you know.

Darling, you'll never believe the rubbish they're writing about Fiona's death. They're calling it a tragic accident. That she suffered a bad headache which caused her to drive over the avenue and into a crowd of scooters where she met her tragic death. They report that she was an American from Long Island, US, and her mother, Ms. Burberry, states her daughter was a victim of amnesia from an early age, who also went round stealing other's names which quite often found her in certain sordid situations. No. Really? Do tell. How about her stealing my damn Chanel outfit? They didn't print that, but said she was wearing a Valentino gown. These reporters come up with the most gawd awful trash when they haven't a clue as to what really took place. Or, maybe they do. Darling, do you really think it possible she worked for the CIA with Mr. Long and got knocked off for killing the wrong brother? I think I'll watch Andrea's round abouts with a little more caution.

The article went on to say that her funeral will be held the 9th May of 2009 at Grey Gardens and are requesting donations to the mentally insane, as flowers might cause allergies to those in attendance. Is that not the laugh?

And she did not crash into a crowd of scooters, Andrea and I saw her ourselves that night. She was throwing herself into and out of and into and out of and into and out of her car. I don't believe that amnesia or the story of Mr. Long's refusal to give her his password was the cause of her rather obnoxious behavior. I tell you darling, something's just not quite right.

The damn wench murdered my Chanel outfit fergodsakes, not a Valentino! Not one bloody word they wrote held a bit of truth and do you know what Andrea said?

"Baby, nothing's the truth but you and me."

Damn, but that man has a way with the words.

Well, we had the most wonderful rooftop long lunch reading the Italian newspapers and all when Andrea asked if I owned a riding crop. To which I answered yes, why do you ask? He said, "Just asking is all." Darling, do you not find that rather odd? He said we needed to get lost, go someplace no one would recognize us and that we should drive to Tuscany and tour the castles. He went to pick up my handbag to leave and asked what I was carrying to cause it such weight. I told him, "Oh, only a hundred or so shades of lipstick is all."

Two can play this game.

That loaded gun is my little secret.

Well, I was up for a drive as people were beginning to stare at us in a most unfamiliar kind of way. Darling, have you noticed that things just aren't seeming quite right ever since I bumped into Andrea in the grottes? Oh well, I'll figure it out another day or the next, as I'm having too much fun to let intrigue and espionage get in MY WAY.

Andrea says touring the castles will be a wonderful escape as we will blend quite well with the-
OUT-OF-TOWNERS.

Oh, darling, I do hope so NOT, as I find I've developed quite the passion for...
boys in fast cars.

Ciao-

-Jacqueline

postcript:
I've misplaced my gloves.

I HAVEN'T ANY CODE

Andrea and I had the most beautifully fast drive into Italy last night. He let me listen to Chet Baker's music over and over and over again. Darling, he absouletly adores the way I love to repeat something to no end, once I've decided I can't get enough!

Well, the drive was so wonderful that we drove right straight on into Rome and checked into HOTEL EDEN. We arrived so terribly late or early, whichever way you'd prefer to see it. Anyhow, Andrea still was asleep this morning when I went down to the front desk and asked that they contact the HOTEL DE CRILLON in Paris for any cablegrams I might be in receipt of and need read. After a few cups of coffee in the breakfast room the young conciegre approached me with a rather severe sort of smile and asked where I'd like to begin.

There simply were scads and scads of cables, that I rushed through them looking only for the most imperative ones, as darling, I did not have time to read all 143!

A cablegram from the nice Inspector Clouseau read:

LADY JACQUELINE. FORGOT TO HAVE YOU IDENTIFY BODY OF DEAD BROTHER. WAS YOUR LIMP CAUSED AT SCENE OF GROTTES? PLEASE CONTACT AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.

Darling, did I not tell you I found him to be an odd little man? Is that not too much that he forgot what he summoned me to the station for? That, my darling, is why I always say you must make absolute certain to always look your most fashionable best. It makes a man forget that he may want to scold you or worse, pin you to some rotten question you'd rather not answer, you know?

My only mistake was choosing to wear those damn YSL heels, which stand 4" tall instead of the Christian Louboutin shoes I had planned on wearing in the very first place. I know better than to ever hesitate my first fashion instinct. Now, I'm afraid the Inspector may even be a bit more confused should he be assuming that my twisted ankle happened the night of the grottes. Which of course, you know darling, it most certainly did not!

Inspector Clouseau is in possession of a dead brother which he forgot to get an identification of while Andrea and I were there, let alone OUR STORY? Are you dying laughing, or what? Well, darling, he'll have to do a much better detective job than what I've witnessed so far before I even begin to ponder a decision at my convenience of when I shall grace that gawd awful station again.

First, the last thing I want to do is identify a MURDERED Armani suit, as I've just been witness to too many tragic fashion deaths of late, that I can't possibly bear another. How I do wish people would learn to take better care of their clothes for gosh sakes. And not only that, but I'm still reeling with thoughts of Fiona not only having MURDERED my beautiful Chanel suit, but that she had the audacioty to steal it from me! Darling, have you ever heard such a thing? Fergodsakes, if you can't afford to buy your own couture outfits, don't go out in public.

There was no word from Harry. I do so hope he is all right.

And darling, having left all 42 pieces of my luggage in Paris, I was forced to drive the Martin over to Pucci and purchase several new summer dresses. Oh, I also picked up nine new pairs of sandals, as I wanted one in every colour. And also, I'm trying to act reasonable, as being in Italy there are so many damn stones one must walk, that I just don't think heels will serve me well should Andrea and I have to spend our entire time here doing 'getaways'. A lady must always be prepared for life's little surprises, you know.

Pull on your gloves, darling, before you read this latest news: When I jumped in the Martin this morning to run over to Pucci you'll never suspect what I found in the passenger's seat. The damn bloody gun that Frank had been waving about in the bistro yesterday. I could have sworn he still was holding it as we sped away. And tied round the gun in a deliciously divine red silk bow was the PENIS SONG! I hadn't the time to figure out its code nor did I care, so I popped it in the trash along with my heels and tied the red ribbon round the car's antenna, as it was such the perfect match and I've hidden the gun in my little black bag, yes, darling, my Grace Kelly bag, why of course! I do so hope the gun won't come in handy, but all with what I've had to go through lately I think it best I keep myself loaded.

Andrea and I are dining at the Giardino dell'Eden, it's the most spectacular open air restaraunt, and the ONLY place to be seen for lunch. It's straight right on the hotel's rooftop so we can view all of Rome.

Do let me know if you hear from Harry.

I'm in yet another mad rush, darling, as I want to make it up to the room before Andrea wakes, so I can decide which colour of sandal will look most smashing today, you know.

All of Rome shall be looking MY WAY.

Ciao-

-Jacqueline

HOLLYWOOD

Oh, darling, I need a cigarete, no two, no give me the whole damn bloody box.

Andrea and I drove round and round and round the Eiffel until we spotted Harry and Frank. Being in the Martin left no room for the two of them, you know. So we told them to meet us in the Latin Quarter at Le Procope. Once we were seated in the back corner room Frank began a campaign of words that I wasn't sure ever would end. Damn, that man can talk faster than I can do cold type.

Anyhow, he went on to ask if I remembered receiving a cablegram containing a penis song, and I told him I did and that it was from an old friend of mine, Mr. Long. Frank said that Mr. Long is no friend of mine and that the penis song was a message in code and mistakenly sent to my hotel room. To which I said, "Yes, do go on." Darling, he told me that Mr. Long works for the CIA, and no it does not stand for Curiously Inquisitve American. I think it's the acronym for American International Capers, but backward. I think. I didn't ask. I could be wrong. Though I doubt it. Well, anyhow darling, it seems that Frank was at Eton the same time Mr. Long and Nicky H. were attending the school. They were fraternity brothers of some sort and swell friends. Darling, I had to stop him right there, as his train of thought was going back years, so much that he was losing himself in the telling of one of their great cricket matches. Even recounting their scores! Gawd!

Why Mr. Long went to America after Eton is beyond me. But, that's neither here nor there. I was laughing hysterically so that a penis song could be code. Is that not a scream? Remember darling, I told you how Mr. Long and Nicky had the bloody best good humor, and if Frank's story is true that Mr. Long's penis song was in code, then it made perfectly fine sense to me. Only Mr. Long would think such an antic which could make it past the government's high security twittering system.

Frank's story was such a long mess that the four of us went through three bottles of fine French Bourdeaux in the course of an hour or so. Frank said that Mr. Long and Fiona were lovers and Fiona developed that terribly bad habit of throwing herself into and out of and into and out of and into her car because Mr. Long refused to share his secret password with her. What? How the bloody hell does a bad habit of throwing and thrasing one's self all about a car have anything to do with being denied a secret password? Frank says he's not for sure, but he's still working on that part of the story.

Andrea asked him what the bloody hell did any of that have to do with me, him and his dead brother? Frank said that he was still working on that part of the story as well. Well, darling, Andrea and I just burst into roars if not fits of laughter at this point. But, Harry looked so grave and concerned that I had to boost him up a bit and tell him that we had no worries, I only was missing a pair of gloves was all. Harry said, "Oh, but Jacqueline, we do, we do have a worry." Harry can be so dramatic, you know? I told them, "Look I am a titled Lady, do service for my Queen and write wonderful articles for the Post on my corona no. 3, nothing more."

And for Christ's sake darling, do you know that right there and then Frank pulled a gun from under his beautiful Henry Ford rust, brown, and light yellow plaid sporting jacket and said, "Jacqueline, this is serious." "Well, you're bloody damn right it's serious, you've got a fricking gun fergodsake and you're waving it round as if it weren't loaded." I told them we were on our way to the police station to retrieve my gloves and Frank told us not to say anything that might implicate us later on, as the French police were unaware of all what was going on. Someone please, do tell me what is going on, as I'd like to know! Darling, I believe Frank and Harry might well have lost a screw somewhere. Geez, it's just a pair of gloves, you know? What drama queens!

Thank God for Andrea, as he grabbed my hand and said, "Let's get lost, Jacqueline and make a getaway." I love it when he says that. Well anyhow darling, while we were running to jump in the Martin I twisted my ankle on the gravel and now I can't walk as proper as I'd prefer. Oh, I was wearing my striking new LV heels as they were the perfect match for my navy outfit that I'd selected just for the police chief or captain, whichever.

I called back to Harry as we sped away that I'd give him a dial tomorrow. Poor fellow, he looked so forlorn standing there in the drive left behind with just Frank and the gun. Well, truly darling, we couldn't have fit three in the Austin Martin. I'll make it up to him tomorrow. That is if Frank hasn't killed him by then.

Andrea and I laughed the entire way to the Paris police station where upon our arrival we were met by Inspector Clouseau, who was the nicest chap by the way. An odd little man, but nice, just the same. And, yes, wouldn't you know, he asked me to identify Fiona's couture outfit, and damn it to hell - it was MY favorite pink Chanel outfit, MURDERED straight right there for me to have to witness. Remember darling, the one we picked up just this spring from Karl's new collection? I was spit burning mad. I told you she was a rat. How ever in the world did she get hold of MY CHANEL, is what I'd like to know? Inspector Clouseau said he was working on that story.

Good Lord, is everyone working on a story? Well, I wish they'd all hurry and finish to get back with me when they reach the end, you know. I've grown beyond weary of everyone's wanting ME to be the cause of THEIR story.

Anyhow, the nice Inspector Clouseau handed me my beautiful driving gloves, and in such fine condition I might add, especially for all they had been through. He asked if I knew how my gloves wound up in the grottes where a dead man's body also had washed up on a nearby river's bank. I told him that I was still working on that story.

The Inspector asked that I stay in France for awhile longer as he may have questions he will want to ask of me as he continues to work on HIS story. Andrea told him, "No problem there chap, you can't twitter us, but you can send a cable to the HOTEL DE CRILLON where Lady Jacqueline is keeping all 42 pieces of her luggage." Gosh, do you not just love the way Andrea handles a situation? He's so cool.

Well, darling, we jumped in the Martin and we're headed for Italy, as Andrea thinks it best we lay low for a bit. Do you not love it? The way he is playing McQueen, you'd think he'd been in the movies. And he's never even been to Hollywood for a screen test.

-Jacqueline

HARRY'S BACK IN TOWN

I've just received a cable from Harry that he's back in town and has brought Frank with him.

JACQUELINE. TROUBLE. MUST MEET. EIFFEL TOWER. 11A. FRANK KNEW FIONA. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY. YOU ARE CAUSE AND SUSPECT. MURDER. HARRY.

For Christ's sake am I ever ever going to be able to make my way to the police station to retrieve my gloves?

Now what?

How must people ever expect me to get dressed as long as they keep sending me cablegrams? I just knew right straight that something was amiss with Fiona. I'll absouletly go stark raving mad if the police want me to identify her MURDERED couture outfit. I simply won't be able to bear it. If there is any blood whatsoever on my gloves I shall throw a grand fit and demand to see the captain in charge. I simply will not stand for blood on my hands.

-Jacqueline

FOLLY

Form may follow function, but if they both are being led by folly, the result is usually disaster, is it not darling?

Oh darling, thousands are protesting against the little French King Sarkozy in the avenues of France this morning. Not only that, but they're leaving trash behind! Who's going to clean up that little disaster?

And, you can't say I didn't tell you this would happen. I mean, should you have been at the Palace with me you would have seen straight right the FOLLY I was witness to. And darling, Ms. Bruni's past only makes the King look more so the Emperor who wore no clothes. But then he's not really the King, now is he? Poor Carla. The mess she's gotten herself into now shall surely lead her into another man's bed before the end of Sarkozy's reign. She's not woman enough to go down with him. Or as the Americans are fond of singing, STAND BY YOUR MAN.
And darling, she just hasn't the class to carry her through another statement.
She's toast.

They've now gone and shut down British Airways and delayed my flight to Northern Ireland, and I so quickly needed to get to Down Royal in County Down and Bellewstown Racecourse in County Louth. MY Queen needs ME. The horses shall just simply have to wait.

Oh, and, Andrea told me that the reason Americans seem continually to point their finger at one another is because one side calls themselves the right wing and the other side the left wing. Well, if that's their case then it's no wonder the mess they've gotten themselves into as no bird can fly without wings, you know. I'd be on antidepressants too if someone were to clip my wings.

U.S. May Revive Guantánamo Military Courts.
No. Says who? Bill Glaberson. Yes, darling, it's headline news.

But, I hear it's all supposed to be hush hush, as with everything American the source is based on hearsay. Or so they say. Is that not the laugh? They can't decide which of their courts is best to conduct trial for suspected terrorists from another country yet wish the Spanish courts to conduct trial on their own leaders in its country? What? Could Americans be anymore confusing?

Seems 100 days later and Mr. O. may be starting to show his true colours. Poor darlings, once the Amercians turn coat on their leader I'm quite afraid they're going to find they've run out of good men. If Americans didn't look such fools in letting their emotions run to the extreme then they wouldn't look so damn foolish when the man they elected starts turning coat on them. Fergodsakes. It's no wonder the lot of them are so unhappy. They get themselves so twisted up, or should I say, "Twittered up."

Let's all sing: STAND BY YOUR MAN

Well, darling, all's just as well that France is up in arms and my flight's been delayed. What's another week in France, but more fun?

Oh, the police dialed up this morning and, yes, they have found my most favorite driving gloves, and not only that but they seem also to have dredged up a dead body and wish that I come down to the station to not only claim my gloves but have a look-over at the 'evidence'. For gosh sakes, that's the last way I wish to spend my morning: Identifying a soaking wet Armani suit most likely MURDERED with moss and the sort. However, they are such dears to concern themselves so with my beautiful gloves. I simply adore the French police.

Also, Andrea's dialed to say that the police have contacted him as well and that I needn't worry, we'll simply drive the Aston Martin down to collect my gloves and identify Pietro as his dead brother. Well, that sounds easy enough, but what shall we say when they ask just how we think he might have gotten that way? The way that I see it darling, is this is Andrea's movie and his first starring role, so he'll come up with the most smashingly perfect alibi, I've no doubt. I'll wear my elegant navy YSL suit and Christian Louboutin heels; what with knowing how drab the police station can be and all, it's imperative that I look most spectacular for my appearance and all. The chaps down at the station do so love not just a good looking woman, but one that's dressed for the moment, you know. Darling, you do know how important fashion is no matter the performance you might find yourself starring in.

And darling, not only have I been contacted by the police and Andrea this morning, but from Alexandra Kotur as well. Remember darling, she was part of the crowd at the grottes the other evening? Well, any how, she says Fiona's turned up dead this morning. Seems last night she was to join Charles and Sydney Finch at Le Auberge Quency near Bastille for cocktails and dinner, and went about smashing her head one too many times. Or should that be one, two, too many times? First of all darling, I most likely would have smashed my own head were I forced to sit through dinner with the Finch's, as they are the MOST DULL CREATURES.

And not only that, but, Le Auberge Quency seats only 7 tables! Which would leave you no choice but to give the Finch's your undivided attention. Poor darling, seems she couldn't decide on whether to enter or leave her car so she threw herself into and then out and into and then out and then into the car where she hit her head on the stick's shift one too many times. Really, she should have had her condition checked at hospital, if you were to ask me. Well, thank heavens that spectacle of France has finally been put to rest. Truly, darling, she had become quite the head sore!

I mean, either get out of your car or not. Of course now there's a rumor that Fiona was an American spy. Which seems likely, what with her not being able to make up her mind and all. Anyone might go bloody well batty trying to decide whether they want the right wing or left, leaving the fat bird featherless.

My gosh, it's no wonder the poor woman found her demise at the stick of the shift. I belive Americans have some rather peculiar saying about being given the shaft, which quite truly might apply in her situation. The American papers most likely are blaming the CIA.

Oh darling, I've just had a thought: Do you think Fiona was supposed to kill Andrea and not Pietro, what with her being a suspected American spy and all? Americans seem always to find themselves in some kind of blunder, you know? Oh, of course they would have had to do away with Fiona if she killed the wrong brother. Well, no bother, they've got the FBI to cover that little mishap right up. I can't wait to tell the police my suspicions when Andrea and I arrive at the station.

O! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!
-Sir Walter

I've instructed the house help to leave my trunks, all 42, packed, as it now looks that Andrea and I will be doing a bit of a madcap getaway. How absouletly fun! I can't wait.

Darling, I've got to dash. Andrea's waiting in the lobby for my appearance. He sent word that this evening we shall relax at the Paris-Prague Jazz Club on 18 rue Bonaparte. Isn't he splendid darling, the way he comes up with the most marvelous of ideas?

Oh, I forgot to mention, I've been listed on the International Best-Dressed List. How could I not? It's ME, Jacqueline de Ladefaire.

And, what's up with Victoria Beckham? Ever since she's left for the States she's done nothing but wear the most gawd awful shoes. Really darling, do give her a dial and kindly drop her a solid hint that her fashion's sense seems to have dropped off the coast west of LA.

Au revoir darling, I'm off for a getaway.

-Jacqueline

postscript:
Should you hear from the Post tell them please that at the moment I'm playing "Let's Get Lost."

COTE D'AZUR

Today I had the most beautiful ride of my life, darling. Andrea and I spent the day driving the French Riviera. It was the most perfect Steve McQueen movie ever. There's nothing like driving the Mediterranean coastline in a beautiful candy apple red '58 Aston Martin with a beautiful man at the wheel. And one who truly knows how to drive. That makes all the difference in the world, you know.

I didn't want to ruin the moment so I didn't bring up Africa, but I was sure I just might well have caught a glimpse of it across the sea, though going as fast as we were, I'm certain there were quite a few things I might have glimpsed, but not sure. So don't hold me to it. I was having too much fun what with my scarf lapping the wind behind me. Darling, I don't know when, if ever, I've laughed so much. Perhaps never in my life.

Just the BEST day. EVER.
I can do that again and again and again and FOREVER.

Oh darling, we stopped in Antibes for lunch at 4 Rue Sade, which was idyllic, before chartering a yacht to pick up a crowd in Monte Carlo so we could anchor out at sea to swim. They were an absouletly splendid bunch. Full of life. It was well past dark on the drive home, which in itself represented yet another beautiful and spectacular moment. The air was warm and divine. The entire day was one grand moment of sun and laughter, fast cars, friends and good wine.
Could there be anything more?

Fergodsake's yes, I'm glad we got rid of the brother. On our way back to the HOTEL DE CRILLON we passed the funniest of sights: Fiona throwing herself into her car, out of her car, into her car, out of her car, and again. Some women never change.

I thanked Andrea for the most splendid day and bid him my farewell, as in the morning I must pack for Northern Ireland and head for the racetracks for Lizbeth. Andrea asked if when I was through with my assignment I might join him in Italy. Darling, I had to tell him that my calendar was booked until late spring, but after that I didn't see a problem with spending a day or two on the Amalfi coast. I mean, it's the least I could do.

Well darling, I'm taking a long hot bath and then wire the Post an article on the MOST perfect way to spend a day in France.

Oh, and darling, there were these horrid if not completely wretched Americans at lunch today that simply went on and on and on about their depression, their hate, their anger, their dull politics, their search, their nonsense, et cet., that Andrea asked we be moved to another table. Do you think it wise that angry Americans be let out of their country? I find them frightfully dangerous, but perhaps that's what they call unhappiness. Why do they have the most gawd awful time in letting things go? Seems they've always got their finger pointed at someone 90% of the time with the other 10% at themselves.

Where tragically it amounts to nothing but 100% rot.

They really can ruin a good conversation. Thank God it's theirs and not mine.

Au revoir-

-Jacqueline

postcript:

There was a cablegram at the front desk from the police asking that I come to the station at once. Well, I missed that completely and I'm leaving first thing in the morning. I do so hope they've found my gloves and can forward them on to me.

THE GETAWAY

Good morning you merry little month of May.

I only can hope this true.

Darling, are you aware how many wonderful outfits I've witnessed murdered just in the month of April? Makes you shudder almost does it not? Might even bring one to tears if they were the sort that got themselves all wrapped in such those kind of nonsense emotions. I mean, darling, always you simply can go shopping and if that isn't possible, you just have someone do it for you. No worries. Except for something that's been monogramed. Uh oh.

I think I may have dropped in the grottes last night my leather driving gloves complete with my initials: JDL
Mmm...this might cause a bit of a quandary, but hopefully not a full affair investigation should a dead brother wash up to the bank. And, they were my most favorite pair, you know. The perfect roasted gold sort of brown colour. With wrist buttons!

That little drive to the country last night, though splendid it was, didn't keep me from town nearly as long as I'd expected. But, darling, I was so washed out by the time I made it back to my room that I dialed the house help to come immediately fold down the coverlets so I could fall straight right to my pillows, as I simply was too tired to eat, though still I was crazed with the thought of that delicious lobster. I so had looked forward to it, you know? Well, Fiona ruined that for me, didn't she though. What a pathetic little monster she turned out to be. I mean, darling, truly, can you believe all that she put me through? Andrea's already sent a cablegram to my room this morning which reads:

JACQUELINE.
LAST NIGHT I WAS STEVE.
SHOULD ANYONE ASK: THE GETAWAY.
JE T'ADORE.
McQUEEN.

Is he not just the most? Truly, he's such a sweet man. Wanting to play car chasing scenes and all. Makes you want to pinch yourself just to see what all's the matter with your laughing so hard. He's just the tops, being so terribly charming and tragically funny. Oh, how I love a paradox or two. And darling, he was just such the gentleman last night when he took the driver's seat and sped my little Peugeot faster than it's ever been driven.
Oh, he was divine.

The front desk just rang saying a Mr. McQueen shall be round at 3p to meet him in the lobby. I haven't even had my morning bun and tea let alone read the papers. Darling, I'm not even going to bother "acting" affected by his brash manner. I find him and his behavior rather compelling, you know. He's simply the most fun I've had since I arrived in France. Ever! I'm certain he won't bore me with details of his dead brother. He's just not that type.

I've just got to come up with the most perfect getaway outfit, you know, something that will send him right over the moon and drive even faster. Oh darling, I can't wait but to sit still. He's just so damn dashing, you know. Honestly, I'm rather glad we ditched his brother- he was just so in the way. Two people in a convertible says so much more than three, unless I suppose one is dead. Now, that may cause a few heads to turn.

If he wears pink socks, what colour should my shoes be?

If his name is Steve than mine must be Ali.

Darling, I love Paris, France.

-Jacqueline

ANDREA AND PIETRO

Wherever shall I begin, darling?

I only nearly had two minor crash-ups in the Peugeot, so my arrival was perfect in Domme. Between us there were six cars, as our crowd was much larger than anticipated. But, that's to be expected as everyone knows everyone and who wouldn't want to be seen with everyone, you know?

We chose to leave everything behind in our cars, which all were convertible, and make our way up to the view from the Belvedere de la Berre, which was breathtaking; yet we all were excited to venture into the grottes before nightfall, which had been used in the past to shelter the town's inhabitants during the Hundred Years' War. Needless to say we got seperated from each other, but I was more than pleased with my promenade companions, the brother's Andrea and Pietro Clemente, as they are considered the creme de Clemente. It's quite the large family, you know. Andrea wears pink socks that he purchases from a small store in Rome that sells them to the Vatican's cardinals! That darling, is a fashion statement.

Fiona was a mess, truly. I thought perhaps she suffered from epileptic seizures or just odd behavior, and if that weren't the case, then there certainly was reason for me to think something was amiss, you know, because she has a truly bad habit of throwing herself in and out of her car, repeatedly.

Anyhow darling, the brothers and I were making our way through one of the many grottes when we heard Fiona screaming like bloody mad. We couldn't find her on the inside, so went out where it already had turned dark and we barely could make out her shadow of thrashing herself wildly about the car. Rather like throwing herself in the car, out the car, in the car, out the car, in the car and out the car, in again. Truly, she was making such a spectacle of herself, that I was beyond embarassed for her.

Darling, I may be daring but after my little debacle with the Baekelands the last thing I wanted was to get near madness again. But, she wouldn't stop screaming and thrashing herself so all about and back again. So Andrea and Pietro began to approach her when she threw herself out from the car- again, but this time brandishing a little pearl handled number, and she was loaded. Let me tell you darling, it was the most splendid match for the outfit she was wearing.

She then rushed up to Andrea and cocked it right near his face and called him a bloody bastard. Now, darling, you know that as dashing I might find Andrea I never whatsoever had any kind of passionate design on him. But, as MY luck would have it, that's exactly what was on Fiona's crazed mind.

I told her, "For God's sake, woman, put the gun down." "You can keep your bastard, though I don't know how swell he's going to look all bloody in his Baroni suit, and besides that he wears PINK socks!"

Then Peitro went and threw himself on her, as she was charging straight toward ME. Well, they had a mighty good tussle, and poor fellow- the gun went off and shot him right straight through that marvelous suit. Oops. Wrong brother. And stupid woman, she left alive the one who wears PINK SOCKS!

Well, it was just simply too much for me. One dead brother and one with pink socks! Though, I was amazed at the scene, as it was so Guy Ritchie well filmed. I mean, had he been there he surely would have directed it just the same. I'm quite sure. Most especially now so since he's gotten rid of Madonna. I mean, it just seemed that she crushed his talent, you know?

Then Fiona had the nerve to throw the gun toward my way which unwittingly I did not mean to catch, but did. Therefore, they were my fingerprints now all over the damn little thing. Fiona? Hell, she just jumped into her Fiat, well, I mean threw herself in, then out, then in, then out, then in again, before she finally started the damn car and drove off leaving Andrea and me covered in her gravel dust.

Andrea told me not to worry as he never much cared for his brother because he always was making fun of his PINK SOCKS! He said to help him throw Peitro in my Peugeot and we'd take a nice drive and dump both his brother and the gun in the river, and that he knew of a wonderful restaurant in Monpazier where we would be served the best lobster in France.

Well, I was up for that as I certainly wasn't going to just stand there and wait for the rest of the crowd to come round and find me a mess covered in gravel and dirt, and anyway I was ravished. I mean, it was his brother, not my loss, and he didn't seem to be in any sort of shock; but if you ask me darling, I think they're all a bit looney, epilepsy or not, or pink socks!

It was such a beautiful evening out that we just propped Peitro up in the back seat. I mean, his suit was a bit bloody, but other than that, nothing seemed out of the extraordinary. Well, except my beautiful white cotton Armani three piece sporting set that was covered in dust. No, other than that, all looked like three beautiful people out for a drive in the Peugeot.

After we rid ourselves of the evidence of the brother and gun we went on to dinner. And darling, right had we just been served a nice bottle of Batard Montrachet did Fiona from out of nowhere in particular walk straight up to our table and poured that bloody damn good wine right down the front of Peitro's beautiful Herme's sporting coat, and started screaming like a mad woman that we were having an affair - without her!

I stood up and told her that I'd had quite enough of her bad behavior as now she not only had ruined everyone's clothes, but wasted a wonderful bottle of French wine. Oh darling, she was such the mouse as she began not only to apologize and tell what a terrifically horrid day she had had, what with throwing herself into her car and out and in and out and back in again, but that she didn't think it fair that Andrea got to sleep with me and she didn't. Well, darling, I would have laughed right there what with her mind all cracked up like that, but she seemed to me to be such the washed up little rat by then, that I had nothing but pity for her and certainly no words, you know. I mean, the woman had left me speechless not to mention dirty clothes.

I told Andrea that I'd give him a ride back to Paris if he'd like, because I wanted nothing more than to get lost. Well darling, do you know what Andrea said to me before I dropped him off at his hotel? He said all he ever wanted was to star in a Steve McQueen movie, with him being Steve.

Darling, it's hard to explain French people.

They're rawther kind of queer, you know?

-Jacqueline

FOREIGN FIGHTERS v. HOUSE HELP

Darling, the foreign fighters who are moving into East Africa are complicating an already-rising crescendo of terror threats in the region. The threats have come from the Somalia-based al-Shabab extremist Islamic faction and from al-Qaida in East Africa, a small, hard-core group also known by the acronym EEAQ. I MUST do something. I've just got to.

My Sleeping Africa soon shall have no choice but to wake. I'm simply fraught in despair with this news, you know. I won't be able to look for help from that silly French make-believe King, as last I heard he still was chasing Ms. Bruni round the castle lawns in an attempt to put an end to her twittering ways. As if that is EVER going to happen. Please.

I am certain MY Queen will send all her forces to stop this tragedy from exploding. Darling, they're suicide bombers for heaven's sake. And if my colours serve me correct, I believe the President of the Western world has a few, if not loads, of ancestors in Africa, so I only can pray that he, too, will round up his troops to save his OWN people. Oh, but, aren't the Americans still up in a bit of a spot with Mr. O. over his Muslim heritage and all? Truly darling, Americans need learn to let go. Well, no bother, they can put that to the side for now, as we've bigger things to concern ourselves with other than which religion means what. I mean, darling, can you make any sense of it all? Anymore there seems far greater amounts of religions than there are couture designers, and both factions seem forever in some kind of fashion war. Anyhow,
other than these two world leaders I only can hope Queen Sophia and masses of other world leaders will join in the campaign to keep nasty foreigners with bad manners OUT OF AFRICA.

Darling, other than news of my passions, which I'm sure you've become frightfully bored upon reading; I just had to drop you a quick line that I've been invited this evening to join Fiona Kotur Marin and her crowd round 6p in the charming little French village of Domme. I have no doubt this shall be an event worthy of a Post story, as the last time I went traveling with this raucous bunch it was several days before I made my way home. Oh, and Charles and Sydney Finch are coming as well. They're quite nice in a, well, let's us say, quaint little way, you know? Not part of the usual crowd, so I'm sure it best that I lose them before they find ME.

Oh darling, the village is just bursting with grottes in the midst of 13th century buildings. There's even a bit of the daring and alluring that gets one's curiosity up in a bit of a peek, what with all those dark and mysterious alleys with just the right spot of danger. Please be ever so kind to leave a cablegram at the front desk of the Place de la Halle if you haven't heard from me sooner than later.

I'm in a mad dash that's just simply not going MY WAY, as the house help seems smitten with the bell boy and can't seem to keep her bottom from bending over needlessly. Darling, I mean, if you are going to bend over, for gawd's sake - pick something up and hand it to me.

I've got to run downstairs as the concierge has my Peugeot ready for my drive out. Yes, I'm driving the car and can't wait to floor it past 90 with my silk scarf whiping behind and round my new Persol 714 sunglasses. Oh, what a sight I shall be on the roads, not that I'll be able to see, but truly darling, it's the fashion I'm looking for.

au revoir-

-Jacqueline

SPANISH FLY

Oh, I do, I do, oh, yes, I do.......................
It's the most wonderful news of the year, and it's only April. Yes, darling, it's a French April. And nothing could be more beautiful than the fashions on the avenues, the ladies lunching, dashing men in their suits, Paris raindrops falling, quiet talking over nothing, dinner at DU PALAIS-ROYAL across from the Louvre, except...

MY SLEEPING AFRICA

Rafel, the Duke of Feria and Don Luis Medina from Spain, discretely known by all the beautiful people as Spanish fly because they're stunning young men, most first. Then not only that, but they founded and co-own the men's fashion line Scalpers. Well, anyway, darling, they've wired me late last evening asking ever so polietly if I'd do them the honour of traveling to East Africa with them both later this fall.

Oh, I do, I do, oh, yes, I do.

We're all in quite the fear that E. Africa soon will become the new Pakistan. Rafel and Don's cause is the Hermanas de la Cruz in Seville, and this originzation shall provide our drinking water when we travel across the dirt; when I will want it most. Darling, it's simply the tops. I can't sit down. And this little troop not only serves water, but the MOST delicious meals in the MOST luxurious tents made from the BEST in white linens. And, you know darling, all the beautiful PEOPLE must have a cause, else they feel lost. Don't ask me to explain. It's nothing worth me bothering my stunning little self with. I don't need a cause. I AM THE CAUSE.

Oh, darling, I'm crashing from anticipation and completely overwhelmed in delight. I could just pinch Harry to see if he finds my excitement containing. Barely, can I bring myself not to think of our plans. I will implore that Lizbeth give me Betsy as my traveling companion. I simply adore her like no other house help, though it will be necessary that I refer to her as tent help on this little excursion. Oh, and I will require a man just to carry my corona. Oh, and what else, what all else shall I need?

With a heavy heart I shall leave it still for just now, as Lizbeth is depending on my expetise with the horses up north, so I must stand straight while taking one step with grace and the other with a LEAP!!!!

I love you, how could I not. I'm in love with ME.

I'm simply bursting with joy, darling.

-Jacqueline

postcript: Angie's nanny best keep those kids in a line, else they'll be hearing from my starched white side.

ALL THE PRETTY HORSES AND PENIS SONG

There's so much to tell, darling, and like always, it just seems there never is enough ME to go round. Ever and always darling, the push and the pull of my frantic life at times finds me wishing there was no more of this and that; but, then that's impossibly not true, as I'd surely just die a fast death if the Post weren't always in wait of my latest and most intriguing news flash and compelling stories.

And, first darling, just to set you straight so you know: Patrick is no Lord Byron. No romantic poet. God love him for trying, but his passions never can reach heights such as mine. Still, I'll be kind and allow him the grace of accompanying me when I travel to Spain for the American torture trials. Oh, wait. Should that be the other way round? Was I to accompany him? Truly darling, does it matter? Things such as this are simply too terribly dull for me to contemplate, let alone figure and decide on what is right and wrong. Thank God we're not Amercians darling, or we'd have to analyze the whole damn thing and call it a "situation".

Mr. Obama is speaking "100 DAYS" from a town square in MISSOURI tonight? Tell me it's not true, darling. Couldn't they have found a more posh setting? Say a quaint little place in the Hamptons? Why do Ms. O. and him keep insisting on statements that speak: "We're ONE and the SAME; YOU, ME and the PEOPLE", when I just read in USA Today that Michelle's wearing Kate Spade? Are people of Missouri not only capable of relating to the fashion design's of Ms. Spade's, but can afford her steep prices? I mean, are they aware of her penchant for pinks and lime green? Colours like that can be awfully expensive.

For gosh sakes, what the hell's in Missouri? Maybe the President wants most to reach the ancestors of "Little Dixie" where farmers and planters once held 20 or more slaves? Who knows? It's America. They'll buy anything, even more so if it's supersized. Even when they're broke or Ms. O. is wearing it!

Louie Louie, oh no, Me gotta go, Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said, Louie Louie, oh baby, Me gotta go....
King Louis, St. Missouri.
Can I call that a parallelogram?

Speaking of figures of speech darling, my dear friend, Mr. Long, sent me a cablegram early this morning replete with a penis song! Is he not the scream? Remember darling, he was at Eton with Nicky Halsam, and the two of them always were so bloody full of good humor, if not completely full of themselves.

A penis song! Have you ever? Too much.

Anyhow, darling, Lizbeth's wired me there's tragic news in Northern Ireland with ALL THE PRETTY HORSES. The economy's gone so tragically bad that not even the wealthy are able to keep their thoroughbreds alive, let alone in good shape so they can compete at the racetracks. And the worst of it all, darling, is THEY'RE BEING SLAUGHTERED FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION! You can imagine, just how distraught Lizbeth is. I might well just break down for my own bloody good cry. I've just got to banish the thought, put up a good chin and carry on.

So, just as soon that I've finished my stay in France, I'll hurry to N. Ireland and see if there's something I can do to help our PEOPLE and HORSES. The news, is simply beyond devestating to me darling, and I'm not quite sure what's the best thing to do; though I simply cannot and completely refuse to idly sit by and watch this tradegy unfold. I've MUST do something, I simply must.

Oh darling, what's this with Chinese promoting the whole world go vegan because meat of all sorts is the true cause of global warming? Not eating meat will slow the spread of swine flu to keep it from growing into a full pandemic and save us from ourselves? What? Where for God's sake do people read their news or come to their "OWN"conclusions?

I feel as if I need to do a broadcast speak of some sort of my own. I mean, truly. A chinese lady who sang with a punk rock band in London and once was sad, now is at peace and HAPPY since she's gone vegan? Her new HAPPY song is titled: Wake Up My Love.
Darling, she's been reported as saying that meat sells have risen 5 fold since gawd knows when, and this is the truest of our troubles. What, again? Someone ship her some rice, noodles, just anything, please.

And tell me, as I'm too worn out to figure everything on my own, but, tell me why people don't just cover their mouths and turn their heads when they cough? How many times must I repeat that good manners surely will see you through most anything, even a little pig flu?

Darling, I truly am so done with world news, heads of state and the common people, that at this very moment I haven't a care one little bit about anyone's troubles. I'm dialing up room service for champagne and then some. I'm more than spent. Horribly and totally exhausted from so much of the world's worries.

STOP THE PRESSES. I'VE JUST CHANGED MY MIND.

First I need have my driver carry up my corona no. 3, as most likely I think I pretty well can type in the bath!

And, it's gonna be HOT TYPE tonight darling, because I'm simply mad on too many stories to ever give up. I've just had the most wonderful of ideas, if not a bounty full of fresh thoughts!

best to you, darling,

-Jacqueline

GRAND GESTURES

I woke late, and in a frantic dialed room service to have them dash up nothing more than black coffee, as like always, my plans had changed faster than quickly. Which of course you well know darling, I always absolutely adore. As I simply do hate being chained to things you only pondered just the night before, you know?

Well, images of me riding in the Scottish Highlands lost its appeal the very second, if not before, I received a cablegram from Patrick Poiver d' Arvor regarding riding with him in the beautiful Loire Valley and staying at the Castle Chambord:

LADY JACQUELINE. SHALL ARRIVE AT HOTEL DE CRILLON AT 9A. WILL TRAVEL TO CHAMBORD. RIDE LOIRE VALLEY. KNOW OF YOUR INTERESTS AND NEW BREECHES. NATURE IS WELL REPRESENTED IN BIG FORESTS OF SOLOGNE. -PATRICK

Well, obvisously he wasn't aware of how I do so abject forests and it's trees. Truly darling, I only do nature for the outfits it allows me. But, that's beside the point, and not the subject of this letter.

Oh darling, Patrick is so much more than a news presenter, well, he's the heartthrob of many a French woman of a certain age. He's assured me that everything shall be primo!
Which, he says is his te los.

Let's us just say that I couldn't get the maid to pack my luggage, all 42 pieces, fast enough. House help can be so dreadfully slow at times, you know. It's as if they don't care that you have places to go and people to receive. And, of course I just had to have the most appropriate suits for castle evenings. So, I chose my best pieces from Marc Jacob, Prada and RL for dinners and Pucci for lunches. All that was equestrian from LV was packed as well. For simplicities sake I narrowed my accessories to only my Patek Phillipe wrist watch and tossed in 2 bottles of Chanel No. 5. The largest they make. As I wanted to bathe myself in it at after a beautiful day of riding, you know.

Patrick and I had the most splendid of times as HIS INTERESTS are wide and varied, if not much just the same as mine. During lunches he entertained me with his thoughts on Hugo's La Comedie Humaine. And wouldn't you know darling, I so truly could relate. I mean, it's as if we were commrades at once- in our discussions of the world's tragic state of affairs.

I looked more than spectacular each time I entered the dining area from the grand staircase for dinners and took possession of the room. Of course darling, I did this so humbly, as the other women seemed so terribly common in their frumps that I hadn't the heart to cause a commotion. Though I did!

And darling, you'd never suspect, but, Patrick's covering the story of American's desire to spill into the Spanish courts to bully their own, which they call seeking justice (whatever it takes to get you through the door), and quite frankly their roar just doesn't seem to carry the volume required to be newsworthy enough to find it's way into children's history books. I'm dreadfully afraid we'll be left for months on end, if not more, with yellow journalism and yawn endlessly while frantically searching for the fashion page. But, alas, I suppose, everyone's allowed their day in court.

Anyhow darling, once and if Spain proceeds in this 'theatre of the absurd', he's asked that I accompany him as a French correspondent of sort. I just simply can't wait. Oh darling, don't you understand? It means I get to go shopping for yet another spectacular court appearance. Oh, how I do wish I get asked to take the stand. Whatever for? Hell, if I know, and what would I care? But, I'm quite sure the PEOPLE of Spain would simply adore seeing me again. As they do so love the way I relate a good story, you know.

Oh, I've just the most wonderful thought: While in Spain, the Spainiards most assuredly will want a statement from me regarding that gawd awful bloody mess of the Baekelands and inquire if I've seen l 'enfant terrible Antony zipping about, as I hear he's still on the loose and free as a bird, which is allowed if you are able to skip past the law. And darling, you know as well as I, that freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose if your family and connections have more clout and money than a bankrupt justice system that hasn't a clue as how to keep documents from disappearing.

Anyhow, is that not the most marvelous gesture, inviting me to accompany him? Well darling, Patrick's just full of them, you know - grand gestures of which I certainly not only appreciate, but adore in a man, and most especially a man who's considered France's greatest news presenter.

Patrick empathized so sweetly with My Sleeping Africa, that one night he slipped under my chambre door a poem he'd written just for ME:

Have you seen My Sleeping Africa?

You surely weep with joy. There's more beauty here than any place. You feel it far before you walk upon the dead of its hateful landlords. There's laughter in each smiling face you'd not think. A BEAUTIFUL SPARK holds close its PEOPLE. It's independence in its grace. It's independent war each time you wake. It's girls at Boarfold. It's in your soul. Call it Zimbabwe, call it Rhodesia; it's a flower no matter her name. Go further north and find Zambia, then tell me what you see in Malawi. The dirt is hot. South is just the same. Do not cry, for you may wake my sleeping Africa.

-Patrick

Is that not the most, darling? I mean, truly the most! I believe him a romantic, but then he's French, you know. No matter. I let him steal my heart only for the moment, as I had so very much riding to do and outfits to wear, that I hadn't the time for Frenchmen falling at my feet.

-Jacqueline

PAGE NO. 2 NY TIMES: THE ONE

Darling, I'm in tears. Good journalism costs more today than ever, while advertising has plummeted, most particularly in print? This is killing the Times, and ME just as well. Not just the New York Times, but, 'our times'. The most cherished of our myths is dying a slow death: Journalism sells. Or is that what they say about sex? At times it seems, does it not, that the two are the same?

After nearly a decade of unprecedented prosperity Mr. Sulzberger has steered his inheritence into a ditch, and I can't quit sobbing. Once, he was such an earnest and well-meaning man and now looks dismayling small, what with all that I'm reading from Murdoch's WS Journal. Oh darling, it's catastrophic - his shares which once sold for more than $50. are now lower than $4. Well, that's less than the price of my beloved Sunday Times. Oh darling, can't Mr. Bloomberg do something, such as purchase it for ME? He's got millions you know, even though he's on a Mayor's salary. And by the way, where did he get all that money? Is Bloomberg a Jewish name? Someone grab my smelling salts, I feel faint.

Remember darling, all those beautiful late Sunday mornings, lingering for hours, with the Times spread out over the bed? I'm steeped in tradition, and that simple pleasure always was and always shall be ONE of my most favored delights,
if not THE ONE.

My tears have ruined the paper, you know. That's not a pun.

This is not tragicomedy, but, true drama and I am the tragedienne. It's simply wretched, the thought, that not a luxury, but a necessity of mine should fall to its death. Quite like a good cigarete, you know?

Only if Ms. Astor still were alive, I know she would applaud and rescue MY love. What a beautiful American she was. But, as is, I must perish the thought that my beloved NY Times may succumb to a tragic end, and march on like a good soldier must.

Oh darling, I have a terrifically marvelous idea. When I ARRIVE in Mexico with Harry, who will be in charge of my cargo if they haven't me a driver at the drop of my hat; my first destination shall be to check in at the Four Seasons and dial up Carlos Helu, as hasn't he the most shares in the Times? Remember darling, he's the Mexican telecommunications billioniare we received at Broadmor last spring, and quite the spar in conversation if my memory serves me correct, which of course it always does. I'm quite sure were I to share a few Negra Modelos with him in the course of an idle afternoon, I might well sway him to consider my plight and we can put this latest tragedy to rest.

It seems never ending, the fights I've up ahead.

with much hope-

-Jacqueline

NEW YORK TIMES COMPANY STOCK IS NOW OFFICIALLY CLASSIFIED AS JUNK

Arthur's got the paper in a bit of a spot.

Details later.

In a mad rush.

-Jacqueline

BEAST OF BURDEN

Have you seen the latest from Dolce & Gabana? Oh darling, it looks, well it looks quite much the same as Michelle O.'s own flawed attire in wearing cardigans with sleeves of a gawd awful criss-cross print thrown over a blouse with a big bow and the most obnoxious of wide belts worn up high right under her breasts! What has happened since I last thumbed through Vogue? Truly darling, who is imitating whom? D&G or Ms. O.? And heavens, truly what does it matter since the statement itself speaks nothing of chic, let alone classic, as it's most certainly a look I never ever would be seen wearing on the street, let alone a charity event.

Oh, perhaps that's the point: relating to the PEOPLE at a charity event or out on the street that a mix match of utterly deplorable clothes is considered chic! And what's with those white smushy like gloves she's seen wearing? It just doesn't look good, let alone proper. I know darling, I'll dial Nan K. to see if she can run to the White House and find any pieces of sense in the private closets of Ms. O.'s.

Myself? Well darling, today I chose to wear my fit-to-order Hereme's light wool oatmeal coloured suit. You remember darling, the one that looks smashing with my fresh water pearls, three strands, if you please; topping it off with my most favorite made-to-order alligator pumps. Not to worry, they weren't sewn from a baby, but a vicious old gator we shot on safari.

HE WAS A BEAST OF BURDEN.

So, no tears, please. As I know how you're so all about animal rights and the like. Darling, he had dead written on his tail from the first moment he snarled at me. I've become such the good aim now, don't you know? What with going on safari in my custom made Land Rover and all those wonderful natives who've shown me how to handle a gun as if it's my right. You see darling, in Africa we don't bother with bills on the right to bear arms. We all get to shoot, you just have to own the right vehicle is all.

Yes, I know darling, you've warned me time and again that the du Pluexs are no entertainment at all. Though they simply adored my new Pirate fashion idea, of which I wired my article straight to the Post before making my appearance in the lobby this afternoon. Oh, did I mention how truly fond my driver has become of me? Well, he surely needn't stop traffic for me to cross the avenues, as I do that quite well myself, thank you; but, oh how he'd just do anything for me, even lugging that corona no. 3 anywhere I may want, should I have a brilliant story that need go over the wire A.S.A.P.

Anyhow darling, though the du Pluex's find me more than entertaining. I do not them. I said my pardons just as fast as I could, ran to the Embassy and requested my traveler cheques, then dashed over to Louis Vuitton to spend it all! Everyone was utterly divine to ME. I even chose several English equestrian outfits, as I might enjoy riding in the Scottish Highlands tomorrow. And the quality, darling, well, the quality simply speaks for itself. The boots (from the finest English leather tanners) and the derby caps, not to mention the jackets and riding breeches simply reek "BEST", and leave nothing to the imagination of how smashing I shall look riding a high-spirited steed.

Darling, I've simply worn myself out and these alligator heels are killing me, you know. Once my driver drops me at the HOTEL DE CRILLON and carries up all my new purchases, I'll splash about in a big bubble bath before I delve into and lose myself completely in all those sumptuous equestrian leather smells spread out over the bed.

Well, I may even wear my derby cap with front button and bring the riding crop to my bath just for practice, you know? I'll whip and wally naked, just for the sport of it all.

Oh, here's where we say, "Tally ho!", isn't it darling?

Is it the Pirates who say, "Aye, mate!"?

I'll simply practice both in the bath and then let you know.

au revoir-

-Jacqueline

PIRATE QUEENS IN TIGHT PANTS

Oh darling, I laughed till my sides ached for a good while when Harry came bounding on my bed bringing me a tarte mirabella accompanied with a notorious story of his night before. He says he's spent his last euros at Pierre Balmain on the Rue Francois 1. Not to worry I told him, the traveler cheques have come in.

Hopelessly smashed he and his crowd decided to cross the Seine by sea and not land. They talked a fine gentleman into lending them his boat and took off sailing into the dark. Well, you can just imagine darling, a boat load of Queens on the Seine in the dark and with no light! I couldn't stop laughing from thinking of the sight of it all. He tells me they bumped into more than a few harbors, which were one in the same as they kept going in circles. Is that not the riot?

Round and round in merry delight they kept going, that is until the concierge came down from the Hotel steps and demanded they put an end to their merriment as the PEOPLE dining outside were NOT amused nor tres agreable with their loud behavior.

It then began to rain, and darling, you do know how big Paris raindrops can be. So big that they were forced to make a mad dash into l 'Escargot, and instead of minding their manners and ordering potage du jour or Langoustines, as Paris is simply a world of fish, they kept drinking as if it were free. Presented the cheque, they simply laughed at the maitre 'de. They'd spent all their euros drinking only fine French wines since early morning at every bistro they passed.

I know darling, I told Harry they should have spent their day at the Ritz where my account is good till 2096 and all he need have said was la chargez si 'il vous plait. But, it seems they were looking for trouble and it most certainly found them as you should see Harry's bumbed up self. But, he's damn jolly about the whole thing; perhaps it's he's still drunk if not plum (that's his favorite colour) insane.

He then proceeds to tell me that two attendants came and picked him and his crowd up by their shirt collars and threw them out! That's right darling, straight on their backs and into the avenues. Oh, how you'd think he'd be ashamed. But, not my Harry. To him, it's all fun and games.

Anyhow darling, I got such the laugh and a sweet drink while Harry went on and on about himself.

We were listening to la musique from the radio when the BBC interrupted with news of Pirates on ships in our great oceans taking hostages for ransom of some sort or the other. Well, this image certainly was quite not the same as a boat load of Queens doing circles in the Seine.

So, darling, most definietely that put an end to our laughter, right then and there. I thought we'd rid our waters of these scoundrels centuries ago. Hadn't we? It just goes to show that nothing is sacred nor ever does anything remain the same. You must always be on the lookout for men in tight pants with scarves wrapped round their heads sailing on big ships in the night with no lights. I think Harry's outfit was quite similar if not the same.

Thank goodness he was playing on the Seine, as Harry might well have been mistaken for a Pirate were he on bigger waters. Pirate Queens! Now there's a smasing fashion idea. I kid you not, watch it become all the new rage on the runways this fall. What a smart imagination one can find when they put their mind to it, you know? I won't call myself brilliant, but you can, my darling.

Harry seems to have sobbered up quite nicely.

So we're off to Maxim's for a souffle' then to St. -Germain-des-Pres for a salade nicoise to discuss with the Du Pluexs my most lastest and marvelous idea. Yes, darling, they've found ME again. But, you know what a kick I get from sharing, most especially when they're ALL my own fabulous ideas!

Oh, darling, I simply can't wait to wire the Post for tomorrow's Fashion Page.

Tally ho. Is that something a Pirate might say?

-Jacqueline

DO NOT DISTURB

How I do so hope you've read the news this morning. A picture of the King of France and ME is splashed on the newspapers' front covers. I look ravishing myself, but the King? Oh, darling, he looks absolutely fatiguee'. Well, truly, wouldn't you if your wife were twittering on about nothing but ME?

First thing this a.m. was the Bell Captain knocking at my chambre with a cablegram from my lawyer, that I chose not to pick up from the front desk last night when I arrived, which read:

ALLO CHERIE. FOR LORD'S SAKE VOU ETES ARE HARD TO KEEP. HAVE WIRED BRITISH EMBASSY YOUR TRAVELER CHEQUES. YOUR SPENDING IS BEAU COUP. TRES' AGREABLE WITH QUEEN. DITTO WITH JE SUIS. A' BIENTOT. SIR LEONARD

Darling, isn't that marvelous? My spending is so pas de quoi with the Queen, which means:
Oh, it's quite all right.

Mais non, I shant go wild in France on my allowance, but the euros are endless, quite like je suis!

Harry's dialed me that he's taken up with a crowd that's staying at the Quai des Grands Augustins so he can enjoy the sea breeze and salt air from the Seine. Which, between you and me, means he's rallied a troop of the like of him so they can mourn lost lovers together. Oh, how so not ME.

I've ordered up gateau and tea for breakfast and shall lounge in these beautiful lavendar scented linens till way past noon before I begin even to think of the perfect dress to wear as I promenade along the Avenues des Champ-Elysees today.

Oh, darling, I've opened the french doors onto my terrace and am watching the beauty of France through my billowing curtains. Nothing could be more lovelier than this moment. Knowing I've no where I need to be, and the front desk is holding all calls so I can do as I please, and should I decide to do anything at all, there'll be hundreds and hundreds of euros waiting just for ME.

Thank God for French politesse.

-Jacqueline

BEYOND TOMORROW

Damn that Harry and the calvary he rode in. My Lord, darling, I'd just spilled myself into a delightful bath, called up for a French brandy, put Louis Armstrong on the record player, opened my book of Anna Karenina (of which I have yet to make it past its first page; I need spark notes) and slipped a pill, when Harry and his troop came busting in announcing they were here to save me and my sleeping Africa as well.

I told him to bash out, as I was doing nothing more than enjoying a moment of ME.

I've had the driver keep the corona no. 3 down in the car as I refuse, simply refuse to think or type of anything beyond tomorrow.

Bonne nuit.

toujour,

-Jacqueline

THE KING AND MS. BRUNI

Well, la te da. Look who the new King of France has brought to his bed. If it isn't our not so dear friend Carla herself. This surely will be her last chance at making a statement; another disastorous one no doubt. Darling, she's been used so many times that there isn't a thing fresh left to her unless one wants to call her surgically stretched cat eyes, injected plump cheeks and all together altered face a tour de force. NOT. Truly, darling, no sooner had the news spread that I were a titled Lady was I summoned by King Sarkozy that he wished my attendance at the Elysee Palace in France.

And people need twitter? Obviously, not ME. And do not get me started on my opinion of the latest new rage of tweeting people to follow you because 'you think' they want to know where you are and what you're NOT doing, or want to share some ass silly thought. To whom, just exactly gives a damn tweet? Truly, it's rawther so... beau geste.

Darling, Carla's done everyone from Mick to Clapton and all in between. What was the King thinking? Everyone knows of her sorrid background and no amount of surgery can scalp a bad reputation.

And, no, I did not suffer one bit of sympathy toward her though, God love her, she tried, but failed, to join the King and I in our discussion of Zimbabwe's ruler, Robert Mugabe, banning Western journalists. He's running the most gawd awful campaign of terror from the capital in Harare. Oh, someone's just got to, got to report on this atrocity. Remember darling, Mr. Mugabe is that terrible man who ruined my beautiful Africa by transforming white-ruled Rhodesia into black-ruled Zimbabwe? Oh, his arrogance makes me shudder, and all the people that he's killed is just simply beyond tragic and my wide-eyed imagination.

Anyhow, Carla couldn't keep up and ran down the palace corridor in tears, most likely to twitter a rock star on her whereabouts and latest dull thought. He's chosen her for Queen? Again, darling, what was he thinking? Well, I'll be the first to predict that it shant last long: her, him or their monarchy if they continue with this rock star and twittering state of affairs. Yes, darling, she can play the guitar as well as sing. My, isn't that the accomplishment? Oh, darling, it's all too much for me to bear. Though I held myself with grace and kept my thoughts tucked neatly under my little pillbox hat, as I find her to be so gawd awful tele no vela.

Anyhow, darling, I'm in such despair on hearing that Mr. Mugabe not only has banned Western journalist, but expelled all foreign journalist as well. His bloody intimidation is nothing more than the DAY OF THE CROCODILE. What does he choose next to destroy? My Botswana, my South Africa, my Mozambique, my Zambia? He thinks himself heroic as he shakes his arms to the heavens above and screams to the PEOPLE -
"The First of Empowerment".

The evidence of his Anglophilia is everywhere: his Savile Row suits, his love of cricket and tea, his penchant for Graham Greene novels, and his continuing reverence for the Queen, even though she stripped him of his knighthood last June, you know. Mr. Mugabe's resentment is evident in his only true statement: "You can never ever convince an Englishman that you are equal to him, never, never." Damn straight, he's got that, and that's all he's got straight, darling. His wife Sally was able to temper the inner tyrant in him, but alas, she's quite dead now, you know. Oh, and how he sobbed over her open casket. Spare me the drama, please.

Then he married Grace Marufu who is 40 years his younger! And she's quite the prodigious retail appetite. Dreadfully, she's seen as the Imelda Marcos of Africa. Grace is known to the PEOPLE as the First Shopper. Ghastly, isn't it, darling? Vulgar, really.

The tragic irony of Zimbabwe is that what is today a hellish country should by all evidence be a paradise. Instead, everywhere in Zimbabwe there are long lines: lines for bread, lines for cooking oil, lines for maize meal, et cet.

Why don't my Zimbabweans rise up? Because darling, they rise up only to leave. Wouldn't you?

Tens of thousands have been tortured with dead bodies collecting at the spillway of a Harare reservoir. The violence has reached epic proportions, such so that it's become rather daunting to keep up my good cheer. But I must, just must, for my Queen and her PEOPLE.

And the Americans are all in a twist over a little water in the face of prisoners? Oh, please!That's the irony of Americans: they never seem able to get their priorties straight. Darling, you need look no further than the evidence of their own tragic fate. They'll now waste millions to bully their own, while elsewhere there are thousands who are dying by torture and surely would love a bottle of Perrier thrown in their face, even on board.

The Americans haven't any money. Do they wish the government of Spain to front millions in court costs that tragically will create nothing but more yellow journalism? What fool thinks Ms. Rice and Mr. Cheney will have their heads lopped off or hung from a tree? Don't ever forget darling, it's the land of the free. Anything goes, which is why their banks are allowed to operate with nothing more in the vaults than talking heads, all the while allowing their country to drown in debt. Throw a little water on that, they should. What folly.

Anyhow dear, Carla, hasn't the courage for the fight we've up ahead. Her foolish head most right shall be all up in a twitter with Grace in a shopping mall for all I care.

Where is Nelson when I need him most? Oh, thinking of needing, well, I need Harry. He'll know what to do. I'll wire him up right quickly to join me at the HOTEL DE CRILLON tomorrow and we'll make great plans to sneak across the border and I'll do my reporting right under Mr. Mugabe's nose. Nothing can stop a Lady who's bearing a cross.

I'm damn mad right now, don't you know, and in need of a few drinks, if not more.

My Sleeping Africa, my love.

-Jacqueline

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

Dieu et mon droit
"God and my right"

I was just running 'bout as fast as I could once I ARRIVED in England, as it had come to mind during my journey over the Channel that never could I wear anything of Lady Diana's as all her gowns in reflection seemed so frumpy and 80s which never would do for someone as splendid as me. So I dialed up my favortie British dressmakers and had them meet me at the PALACE OF WESTMINISTER.

Oh, darling, I just cannot tell you the fun that was had. Dresses and dresses thrown round the room with us all falling both to bed and floor in mounds and mounds of tafetta and silk layered deliciously in laughter. Anyhow, I chose from Stella a marvelous creation hot from her pressing room. Elegant, yet chic, low cut, but not too, as I didn't want to bow before the Queen and subject her to my bosom of lust. The dress is so terribly me, and Stella said I should call it my own. How dear of her, truly, to care for me so. Well, anyway darling, it's so classic and sleek, sleeveless and fitting like a glove in the most perfect shade of royal blue. I chose no hat, as I wanted all to see my radiant smile when the moment came that I be titled.

Lizbeth herself dialed my room letting me know she was awaiting my ARRIVAL in the Grand Room below. I know, darling, I really shouldn't call her Lizbeth, but we're such intimate friends and all, that it's been her pet name forever and ever, and in return I've allowed her to call me Jackie; and commoners you know aren't to call her anything at all, let alone Queen, that is unless they are in crowd cheering, "God save the Queen."So in keeping with protocol and for the sake of my title, lets us refer to her as:
QUEEN ELIZABETH

Well, she gave such a beautiful and truly "such about me" speech of ALL that I've contributed to the commonwealth and how brilliantly I wear the royal colour blue that now and forever I shall hold the title:
Lady Jacqueline

Of course it was a crowning moment in my life, but I rather doubt I'll use the title unless I've got to throw it round to get-
MY WAY.

We're spending the evening in her private suites, as Phillip's in Scotland hunting fox for the week. I only can hope that dinner's not bland as you know the royals and their bad taste when it comes to ruining what truly could be a divine meal. Hopefully there'll be loads of jams and gravies to spread over everything dry, as truly darling, whenever I'm visiting the palace it's the only way I can muster through those dreadful dinner hours. Odd, isn't it, how Britian's loathe flavor to their food? So, truly it's no wonder their fascination with crumpets and biscuits- dead bread.

Perhaps it's they feel guilty having so much while the commoners go without that it's their darling way of attempting to reach out to the PEOPLE that they are one and the same, but not really.

Oh, I'll dash Michelle O. to drop her some hints.

I'll be in a scurry to amuse the Queen with my latest travels as I'm meeting Lady Brett, Lady Olivia and Lady Anne to run from the castle and have a car drive us to club 3020 where we can get rip roaring smashed and laugh over our new titles. You didn't think I was the only one, did you, darling? Oh, heavens no. There are so many of us contributing to the commonwealth what with our good deeds of receiving ALL PEOPLE with good cheer and grace. Truly darling, there's nothing more to it than that. Allowing yourself to be entertained in all the right places while being damn jolly about the whole nonsense of it all.
Well, that and keeping thin.

And certainly, there's no volunteer work, as our Queen never would expect Ladies to work....
FOR FREE.

-Jacqueline