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

YELLOW JOURNALISM

Darling, you do know how I detest cheaply sensational and unscrupulous methods in newspapers simply to influence readers, right? Well, Jennet tells me that's all the rage in America, yellow journalism, you know? Oh, I just must rid these PEOPLE far from my mind. Have they truly lost all sense of their selves? I can be of no service to them as long as they continue their decline. I mean, why bother? It's such a waste of my precious abilities and time, as the polls say American's think Mr. Obama is leading them in the right direction. WHAT?

Well, God save my Queen, in that Lizbeth loves and appreciates my Post for all that I provide in rational and at the same time, adorable reporting for the PEOPLE. So much that I've just received a cable from her that I must return to the United Kingdom immediately as she wishes to grant me the title Lady Jacqueline, this very afternoon. Whatever shall I wear? Oh, why fret, Lizbeth's surely kept a few of Lady Di's delicious dresses for me to choose from. Oh, and the hats. Remember darling, she had such the collection of fabulous hats.

I just can't wait to get to the Windsor's. Oh, that most likely should read: Arrive at the Windsor's. What with me being a lady now and all. Everywhere from this point forward I shall arrive, as never again can I simply just go. Oh, this must have been so hard on Lady Diana, but if she could do it, then so can I. Mmmm...but then that didn't work out so well for her, did it darling? Well, nevermind that, as I have no intention of following anyone's legacy. Why ever would I? I'm creating my own.

Oh, what a scream. IT IS ALL ABOUT ME.

Anyway, darling, just wanted to wire you the great news about me. I'm in a dashing rush to have them stop this train to let me off. The porter will escort me to where the Queen Mary is anchored waiting to sail me home.

I'll do France later. You do see, don't you darling, how great writing can propel you to the top?

Like Winston said, "Never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give up."

-Lady Jacqueline

TEAPOT OF SENSE

Darling, I had the most splendid meal with the WASP company and all plans have changed. When do they not? I've ditched Harry and the driver and riding the train this very moment. The porter now is in charge of my corona no. 3. You should see my berth, nothing short of a royal carriage. I simply just dialed up Queen Sophia and told her my issues with Harry's demeanor and she agreed that I needed to escape his overwrought emotions for
MY OWN MENTAL HEALTH.

God save the Queen!

Anyway darling, I'm traveling with Jennet Conant, you know, she's part of the Dahl family, and has the most daring sense of style. Style I can admire, which is so very rare these days. You do remember, darling, Roald Dahl, don't you? He was so tall, handsome and intelligent, and part of that wonderful British spy ring in wartime Washington. They had such madcap times with the Americans in their little espionage operations in swaying them to join the war and save our GREAT ENGLAND. Oh, the wonderful days of Churchill and FDR, that I only can wish were here again. Did you ever make it up to Tuxedo Park on any of your travels to the States?
Well, it's in a sad state of affairs now.

Just heard over the BBC that Americans are losing their jobs faster than I can get room service, which you know darling, is so very easy for me. Well, I mean it's simply beyond my
comprehension that these unemployed PEOPLE are volunteering for non-profit orginazations to keep THEIR MENTAL HEALTH from sliding into depression while staying on the government's dole. Please, someone explain to me how this makes a teapot of sense. Working for free to keep one's spirits up? Have they all gone mad? Well if that's not a foreign state of affairs, don't call me Jacqueline.

Is this the sort of change Americans were all sprited up about during their presidential election? Gawd, it's too much for me to ponder. And now what with Mr. Obama spending so much time traveling Europe, I only can pray we don't run into each other, because I simply refuse to work for free for him. I know, I know, I need to dial up Michelle and ask her to check his temp. She's simply got to rein him in. Too bad she's not HIS Queen. This is no roman a clef, darling. I heard it straight from the BBC.

Anyhow, we're traveling the Coast of Biscane and English Channel through Poitiers, Nantes, Rennes, Caen, Rouer, and should be in Paris by tomorrow morning where my darling driver shall be waiting to escort me off the train.

Wracking, how news from America can be so distressing to one's sunny outlook and I'm simply ashamed for its
PEOPLE WORKING FOR FREE.

What a tragically socialist state they've gotten themselves into now.

Truly, all one needs is friends in all the right places. Well, I mean, LOOK AT ME.

Always affect.-

-Jacqueline

WASP COMPANY

I'll have to pen a thank you letter to my new best dear friend Queen Sofia, as she so graciously ordered a driver and car for Harry and me in gratitude for all I had given of myself to her Spain and its PEOPLE. Darling, she is such a lovely woman. So lovely in fact that she's insisted I not only keep the driver and car for my entire holiday in France, but she set Harry and I up in the most fashionable part of Paris at the HOTEL DE CRILLON.

Fortuantely, I think the courtroom scene went quite well, don't you? Everyone was so perfectly dressed that you just couldn't help but feel blessed amongst such ravishing attire. And Harry? Well, I was forced our entire afternoon by the sea to wipe his tears over losing Antony. It was so not me, but it's Harry, you know? And, darling, I would do just anything for him, anything at all. If only he could learn not to have emotions, and be more like me. Anyhow, I find myself rather bored speaking anymore of my time spent in Spain, so lets us not.

Tonight we're first joining the delightful WASP crowd in Boulogne-Billancourt at the fabulous Chez L' Ami Jean restaurant before driving on into Paris. I know darling, they're American, but their ancestors are NOT. And I do so enjoy them as they always have such marvelous gossip about other Americans not in their crowd. Their quite cosmopolitian, you know. Of course never so much as the French, but I'll cover that social set tomorrow when I'm feeling more up to par and can lose Harry.

I truly am spent with him as he wishes to walk along the Seine and mourn for Antony. Gawd, it makes you want to throw yourself to the floor, does it not? Mourning by the Seine? Oh, please. I mean, lets so get over it, as I have so many guests I wish to receive and this is MY holiday, not his. I mean, really darling I couldn't bare Harry ruining my reputation with the French set. They are so not about sympathy. So, obviously you see my predicament and why it's best I let only Americans enjoy my company this evening.

Tomorrow? Oh, darling, my plans. I'm off to Montmartre. And if Harry hasn't pulled himself up by then I'll sneak out without him, as now I have my own driver and all. I shant let him ruin my happiness. He's just become such the pill, truly.

Well darling, France is calling my attention so I must go. Oh, and thank God for my driver as he now is in charge of lugging that damn heavy corona around for ME.

-Jacqueline

THE SPANISH COURT

Oh, please be a doll, won't you and round up your friends and have them buy tomorrow's Post?

SCOOTER KEYS SNATCHED IN MURDER TRIAL

BARCELONA SPAIN: ap wire
Jacqueline de Ladefaire

Early this morning in Spain's central court American Antony Baekeland by and through his guardain ad litem, Harry S. Wadernut, pleaded insanity in the murder of his mother Barbara Baekeland, dressed in Chanel. The dress was presented as evidence. It was obvious to the court what once was a beautiful creation now is nothing more than a bloody dress. The body of Mrs. Baekeland has yet to be discovered.

Justice Fredrico presided over the proceedings by making quite the fashion statement in wearing a beautiful silk robe of red. The courtoom was overcrowded but, done so reasonably well.

Justice Fredrico asked Mr. Wadernut what he recommended be done with Mr. Baekeland and was met with a compelling story of Mr. Baekeland's insectious affair with his mother, Mrs. Baekeland, and requested the court take into consideration Mr. Baekeland's kind gesture toward his mother in appeasing her terrible plight of trying to sway him of his homosexual nature by lavishing him with fine Italian clothes fit for a proper young man. It was their shared love of fashion that brought them to reach heights of unacceptable passion.

The senior Mr. Baekeland was heard laughing from the stands, though he made a grand statement in his own Italian silk suit of charcoal and black lizard tie up shoes. Justice Fredrico was forced to ask the Senior to settle down his amusement.

The prosecutor looking dashing in Armani requested the court take into consideration Mr. Antony's boar like behavior at a cocktail party given only moments before he stabbed his mother which caused a bloody mess and ruined the party for all in attendance. Given he was an American and had taken advantage of the Spanish people's custom of allowing children to enjoin with adults while at table, yet did not show proper manners called for a sentence of murder in the first degree.

Justice Fredrico asked if there were any witnesses and a stunning woman in Prada asked to take the stand stating her name only as Jacqueline and that she had been the guest of honour at the cocktail party. Ms. Jacqueline proceeded with a great sense of self as she was precisely cogent in unraveling for the court the direct circumstances of the whole bloody incident. She described in breathless detail what each guest had been wearing, going so far as to say what a devestating moment it had been for her to have witnessed the death of a stunning Chanel dress soaked through and through with blood from Barbara.

She further stated that she found the young Mr. Baekeland's table manners deplorable and felt he was responsible for ruining the party and no one else. Ms. Jacqueline in her impeccably sharp demeanor spoke quite eloquently of the events, giving the court a wonderfully illustrated image of the entire tragedy and that not only had Mr. Baekeland's behavior annoyed her that night, but she agreed with Mr. Wadernut that young Mr. Baekeland in an ironic twist of fate was sadly a victim of fashion and should be allowed his freedom based on his obvious insane desire to please his mother's sense of style wherein homosexuality was a faux pas in her social circle. At the closing of her statement the PEOPLE stood and clapped in approval of her good grace.

Upon leaving the stand Ms. Jacqueline stopped to gather her wide brimmed navy hat, white gloves and scooter keys when young Mr. Baekeland jumped from his chair and snatched from her hands the keys to her little scooter, then made a fast run through the court's doors.

Mr. Baekeland still is on the loose and a warning has been issued to all fashionable mothers to beware of a young homosexual man dressed in an Italian suit motoring on a light green coloured scooter.

A handsome reporter from the British press asked Ms. Jacqueline what she thought of losing her scooter keys to Mr. Baekeland after having just testified that he should be set free because irony and fashion don't always make sense?

With her charming wit, in place as always, Ms. Jacqueline told the reporter that quite honestly she felt terribly relieved from the burden of the atrocious little scooter, as it had done nothing but cause her distress, what with her couturier outfits not matching its style and colour. Further, she stated that Antony's departure from the courtroom was nothing less than a coup de maitre as far as she was concerned.

Asked what she would do next, Ms. Jacqueline replied that she and Harry Wadernut would first do a bit of sunbathing by the sea before hiring a car to drive them to France later this afternoon and that she hoped someday little Antony would appreciate his art and not smash it on mothers' heads.

HAPPENSTANCE

Down at the la Queerita bar I was, I know, looking for nothing or no one in particular.

And, darling, wouldn't you know, the du Pluexs walked in and Mrs. du Pluex was wearing one of those happi coats. You do know of them, right? Those awful little short lightweight Japenese coats worn with a narrow sash over street clothes? I know, I felt for her too. My God, we're in Barcelona for heaven's sakes. Not Portugal where anything goes. That is so the other coast.

Well, I highly doubt it was happenstance that brought me to their attention as they are staying in the same hotel Harry and I are. I mean, truly, after all I had been through this evening you'd think they'd have the good manners to stay out of the bar and let me soak in myself, alone.

But, tragically not. Seems they wanted to kiss me up. Now suddenly, I am not the terror who caused Barbara's beautiful Chanel dress to be ruined in that awful murder? Don't you just deplore people who once they realize how wonderful you are, you don't think they are?

And of course Mrs. du Pluex went on like a nut over my lounge wear and slippers as if I were the tops. I simply lit a cigarete and blew smoke above her direction. She was so of no interest to me. I mean, darling, the woman had turned on me only hours before.

Anyway, I let her go on as I did so want to hear what had happened to Antony and all. I don't think she took one breath between her sentences as she just had to tell all that she knew. Well, why didn't she tell me how irrational the Baekeland's behave at cocktail hour before asking me to join them? That certainly would have saved me much distress. Some people are just simply forever and always mindless of good sense. I mean, don't get me wrong, darling, I'm always up for adventure, but bad manners, murder and incest? REALLY. Spare me the drama.

Seems Antony was appointed a guardian ad litem and is going to plead insanity. NO? Do tell. And Antony is a homosexual. NO? Do tell. Truly, darling, Mrs. du Pluex had nothing of news to share with me.

Harry? I've misplaced him again.

Mrs. du Pluex had the gall to ask if I'd like to motor over to France with her and Mr. du Pluex tomorrow. I mean, really, I was speechless, truly. Our trip together is so over. They have been such a disappointment to me all the way round. And here I had thought them once so swell. Well, you know, darling, Mr. du Pluex is no fool. I knew right away that he could tell I was bored beyond yesterday, so he kept trying to pull her up to their room, to no avail.

Eventually I excused myself from her dribble and ran up here to write you all about the NOT so happenstance of being bothered by the du Pluexs.

In any event I may run over to Antony's court appearance tomorrow before I leave as I feel it my duty to speak for the PEOPLE of Spain. It's as if I sense their emotions of our common belief that Americans take advantage of other countries customs, you know?

Well, I just can't wait because you do know, darling, how much I love courtrooms and justice.

My only quandry should be choosing which house help I allow to steam my Prada suit, you know the one that goes so smashing with my wide brim navy hat?

I've just got to get some sleep, darling. You know how much judges appreciate a fresh woman.

post script:

Harry's just rang me up with the news.
HE IS ANTONY'S GUARDIAN AD LITEM.

I need two pills.

-Jacqueline

YOUR UNWASHABLES

Pilfering about her wardrobe... her meaning I or me...yes, I mean mine, left me bubbling with utter distaste and frustration. Why, such a mess of frocks! Frocks all holed with memories. Each one an unshapely happenstance from the washed and dried.
OH HOW I DO NEED SOMETHING NEW TO WEAR!
-babette

THAT BLOODY MESS

Oh, first, do let me sigh . So much has transpired that barely have I the strength to move from this bed, let alone type. A quick respite at the pavillion simply wasn't enough, dear, not for what I just experienced.

First, darling, I must warn you to never ever wear a gown of any sort while riding one of those little scooters. I found it fashionable fun in the beginning, but quite the burden for where I was going, which was off to everywhere I may never have been. Which always is my point in life.

Zipping about on that scooter at all of 30 kms we went down one way streets during la siesta and it was the most daring fun. I might well have been a bull in Pamplona, sans the crowd, what with that gown twirling fast all up round my head.

The du Pluexs were swell as long as I left them to their suite, they're heavy drinkers, you know and can become such the bore more suddenly than not. All was fine if I stayed only with Harry, who just simply begged and begged to come to Spain with me. Darling, have you noticed the price of petrol and a box of cigaretes? Thank God I haven't money or I'd have to purchase them myself.

Anyhow, darling, you'll never imagine the circumstance Harry and I found ourselves in. Just a spectacular moment of complete insanity. Well, the du Pluexs are great friends with the Baekelands and invited Harry and I to join them at their villa Estaca el simone round 9p. You remember, darling, that insane family that invented Bakelite, which became the modern form of plastic? (That's a story in itself) Well, they're just mad, you know? The whole lot of them. I needn't try to express their level of madness, which is limitless, as you surely remember them from your trips to the States. FRANKLY MAD.

Now, the Spainiards were lovely to me, of course, and helped Harry and I to revel in our adventure. And certainly, please, don't get the idea that the Baekeland's possess a drop of Spanish blood, because they haven't!
They are no more than Americans with passports!

THEY'RE TERRIBLY FRIGHTENING. I KID YOU NOT.

And the du Pluex's? Well, I'll never see them again. Oh, darling, they're awfully sore at me.
But, I was simply abashed at their American friends' neglect of table manners and delight in the dangerous sport of murder along with incestious behavior. I adamantly refuse to tolerate such obnoxious trivialties. Well, anyhow, darling, all was marvelous as we were enjoying our cocktails, that is until Barbara Baekeland's son, Antony, came running from his bedroom at her with some sort of art he'd done. That's right, a giant canvas, and came running like a wild boar and smashed it over her head. Well, Barbara just went on talking as if nothing had happened. And the du Pluex's? Well, they too acted as if nothing unusual had just wacked Barbara's head.

Needless to say, I looked at Harry and then at the du Pluexs with nothing short of shock. Then, Mr. du Pluex took me aside and whispered ever so charmingly into my ear that Antony was sleeping with Barbara and they might be having a lover's spat. At this, darling, my cocktail slipped right from my hand and crashed in shards onto the marble floor. Oh, by the way, the pattern was outstanding, just so you know. A delicious slab of marble they say that was imported from Morocco.

Anyway, I stood up and told Antony if he was sleeping with his mother and it caused him such nasty emotions that I'd get him a knife my very self and he should just do away with her, you know, as he was so ruining the party.

Well, Barbara said she'd get it herself, and went right to the pantry and pulled out a little razor edge steak knife, wonderful, by the way, for cutting filets and the sort. And, darling, darling, right there in front of us all, he stabbed Mrs. Baekeland, straight through her Chanel dress, and it was so beautiful, stabbed her dead, completely. Such the bloody mess.

And can you believe that the du Pluex's blamed me for this, darling? That I'd ruined the party? Which was absolute nonsense, as Antony had started the rucuss, not me. It was horrid how they turned on me. Did I mention my V. gown was the most beautiful colour of aqua? Anyhow, I did apologize for the mess I'd made from the broken cocktail glass.

Darling, never have I been so thankful to have Harry by my side.
Oh, my precious Harry; I'm quite sure he wanted to stay, as he himself seemed to have fallen for Antony. Isn't that the way it always is, darling? Those naughty boys are so enchanting if not mesmerizing. But, as always, HE PUT ME FIRST. He came round and grabbed my arm and whisked me right out of that God awful place faster than our scooter ever could go.

We motored straight to the police station to file a report, but by then la siesta was over and so many Spainiards were crowding the streets that they all noticed my gown and were reaching out to touch it so that we just had to, had to, stop and talk fashion before we actually made it to the station. I had to give the PEOPLE what they desired, you know? So give or take a few hours, I finally was able to rush in a frantic like state to tell the captain all of what had happened.

And, darling, do you know what he said to me? He asked me if I was speaking of the Baekeland family and of course I answered yes. He then thanked me, as if I had just given him one of my wonderful articles as a gift. He wasn't fazed in the least, but seemed rather pleased. I asked him if he were not going to send some officers round to report what I had witnessed, or at least to take Barbara's dead body away. And then he said the most marvelous thing. He said, "Why bother?" He told me it was just another dirty American down.

Well, with that, Harry and I went straight into a fit of laughter, right there in the station's doorway with all the Spainiards looking on from the street.

Isn't that a riot? Darling, I didn't even get in the least bit of trouble. Oh, I love those Spainiards even more so now than ever before. Heavens knows what happened to the du Pluexs, as you know me, darling, I never look back. Oh, well, just chalk them off; I haven't the time to kiss up old friends, and certainly not the slightest inclination. And as far as I'm concerned, it's the Baekeland's own bad manners that caused this mess, as truly I believe they took advantage of the Spanish people's custom of allowing children to the table.

So, you can imagine the state I'm in. Just exhausted. Completely exhausted and my hair's just a mess. And you needn't bother to ask what my beautiful gown now looks like. I've thrown it to the trash and changing into lovely cotton candy pink coloured lounge wear to meet Harry down at the bar after my bath. Oh, and most likely I'll wear those dainty puff slippers you sent over. I'll look stunning, which is the whole point, if not the only point, of my evening.

Darling, don't even bring up the Post. I haven't the time to wire an article and still have so many emotions NOT to face.

Oh, by the way, I've read with interest where Mexicans are experiencing difficulties with guns and the like supplied by Americans. And now with my having become embraced by their people, I truly feel as if I could relate, you know, to the PEOPLE. They are one in the same aren't they? Spainiards and Mexicans? Well, no matter, they seem close enough. Now, there could be a story for me, darling. A truly intriguing adventure. I'll talk it over with Harry to see if he'd like to escort me into such danger. You never know darling, they may be in need of a Mexican Queen. Oh, Harry will get such a kick when I share him my brilliant new thought: Queen Harry!

As is, my social calendar is booked for the season, so Mexico will have to wait; and we'll now not leave till late afternoon tomorrow before motoring over to France. I'm sleeping in.

Oh, darling, how fun it all would have been had you been along.

The Spainiards are simply mad about ME.

-Jacqueline

RAVISHED IN RED REBELLION FROM DIOR

The new LIP COLOUR just in from Christian: See above

I'm wearing it tonight when I motor over to France via Spain.

To hell with the Post. I've got places to be seen where I just don't care for my corona no. 3 to be an accessory.

Life just got so frantic once I woke from my nap. The invitations, darling, were just flooding my floor. The tel wouldn't quit ringing and people kept knocking at my door. There was just so much to choose from. I don't know where or however I should begin to tell you of all that's out there in the world tonight. So many invites that I had to narrow it down to only a few this evening and then scramble my social calendar to fit the rest in till late spring.

I chose to leave with the du Pluex crowd, as they're always such marvelous fun. We're starting in Barcelona. Oh, how I adore the Spainiards. Just simply adore. Anyway, darling, I've just got myself in a mad rush right this minute. I'm wearing my Valenciaga gown and won't I look smashing on one of those new little scooters everyone's raving about? Oh, how I do hope the colours match. How charming it all will be.

I do so need those pearls of Babette's, but she's off dancing somewhere with them wrapped round her waist. As always, she's never where I need her, but busy......
AND I MIGHT BE INTERRUPTING HER.

Spain in the moonlight and France in the morning? Divine. I'll write as soon as I've settled myself in some quaint little spot or grand mansion. Damn this corona and its weight. But, don't ever forget darling, I do it for the PEOPLE. I love them so. Such darlings to read my Post the way they do. You can't help but to fall in love with your readers.

And how appropriate, my lipstick colour, Ravished in Red Rebellion, as I feel such the rebel, not wiring anything to the Post today, you know? Well, if I wouldn't have had such a dreadful time on the beach I'm quite certain I'd have done my correspondence as required. But, damn that young couple and their radio. People have become so crass, you know. Have you noticed, darling? They really can put you right to your room with their obnoxious behavior.

All I can say is Hail to the Queen and thank the Lord for Christian's fabulous new colour, as I think I'm becoming quite more like ME. Was that not dreadful, that moment when I was sure that today was NOT ALL ABOUT ME? Thank God that has passed ME by.

Anyhow, I've got to run. Best to you, darling.

-Jacqueline

BATHING PROTOCOL

Jazz cigarros e um pouco de liberdade de expressão

Oh, really, do people not know the protocol of bathing by the sea? I mean, truly, I was resting quite peacefully only to be annoyed by the young couple next to me. Not only annoyed, but awoken from my nap. Certainly I love Chet Baker and all that jazz, but really, a radio on the beach? Oh, darling, please.

And what happened to Harry? Has he abondened me? I could find no house help and had to lug this heavy corona up all those millions of stairs all by myself, with no Harry in sight!

I need to lie down for a few hours more as it still is daylight. I'll worry about whatever spots I need to when I awake later this evening. Like wherever shall I go, whatever shall I do? That sort of thing, you know, darling. The Post has left me thousands of messages down at the desk wanting to know where my story is for the day. Again, I'll worry about THAT SPOT shall and when I choose to awake.

I dialed up Babette only to be confronted with her message which said she was busy and I might be interrupting her.

WHAT?

This day has so not been about me.

I need a pill.

-Jacqueline

TRAGIC EVENT: THE FITZGERALDS

Oh, darling, barely can I type on this corona no. 3 in my lap with the sand between my toes and the warm sun glowing down on my bathing body. Yes, in my smashing black one piece Chanel; your favorite. Oh, and what with the quiet noise from the mediterranean sea calling out to me, how ever do I do it? I must, must soldier on. It's income, you know? Though the King of Spain writes me not to worry about such trivial things, such as euros and deadlines. He tells me to give up my Post!!!!!!! What? Doesn't he understand that I'm a woman of modern lust. I just must; everything's a must. Oh, I'll give him a dial later this afternoon up in my suite. You know, just to let him know how I'm thinking of him so.

So cumbersome that I MUST report to the Post, what with such beauty surrounding, tempting me like crumpets on silver. Jam? Oh, darling, not this morning, please, the thought turns my stomach right round and then back again. Needless to say, I've got a crashing headsore from traveling 'cross the Atlantic last night.
NOT FROM THE BUMPING OF WAVES.

Thank goodness for Harry, he's mixed me up quite a cocktail and assures me that in no time at all I'll be back to myself. Perhaps if I can get the house help to bring round some Kosher salt for my rim, I'd be liking this drink a tad bit more. So dull as is. Harry says putting on a good one just as the night before relieves one of not only the head pounding but anything vulgar you might have spoken. Cetainly nothing vulgar ever passed my lips. It's the others I mourn so for.

Thank goodness for Harry.

God save the Queen(s).

In any event, the evening spent at Lady Elloise's grand party aboard her big liner (ship, you know) was so very tragic no matter which way I look at it this morning, even under my sun hat. Scads of Americans. That, was tragedy in itself. It's one thing to be on board with the lot, but such rot one is subjected to once they begin to speak of themselves. And, you know, darling, that is ALL they do: speak only of their selves. Well, that and drink till they no longer can speak. How very unproper. Where did they NOT learn their manners?
Weren't they raised on grand plantations or somewhere chic? Boarding school? Finishing school?

Is it truly any wonder they call Fitzgerald their hero? Oh, it's killing me, the thought. Sadly, I simply haven't a thing to report, as I've been smashed by Americans all through the night. Surely, darling, you understand the dilemma. I'm simply brain dead after such a dreadful time.

Perhaps Harry will be a good sport when I awake after my nap and have planned something gay for us to do this evening. Something I CAN REPORT.

Perhaps he can round us up a few Iranians or something of the sort. I hear there's much to report on what's happening in their little world. God forbid any of them wear towels on their heads. Have you seen them, darling? Just dreadful if not terribly awful, their fashion. I just couldn't bare it, not even over drinks. So unfashionable, you know? Truly, someone needs to do something about that situation of theirs. Are they not aware of spring hats? Really.

-Jacqueline

RETURNING TO MY POST

Life's such a frantic pace when you're reporting on it all. The native was such a divine help to my article. I've thought of a new title, having been inspired by his natural love of fashion and being so far removed from the whirl of it all. You know, living in such a horrid little village. Who knew? My, how the people are evolving.
So, I'm sending my article across the wire tonight titled:

DASHES OF PINK AND BROWN FOR REVOLUTION

Damn to the elephants and big cats. Who cares? I most certainly don't. So why should I write of such nonsense? Hemingway already covered all that years ago anyway; how very daring of him. No, my story is about the PEOPLE. They seem to want a revolution and are doing it in fine fashion. Oh, what a statement. Pink and brown. Amazing, their knowledge of fabric and colour. Who knew? I've just got to, got to, get it out to the world. But, then that's the beauty of my job, now isn't it? Reporting between all my other important activities, such as lounging by the sea. That, and laughing with Harry. Anyway, can you imagine, darling? A revolution in pink and brown. And with such attitude. Such aplomb. I can't wait till Michelle O. reads my article. Perhaps we'll start an orginzation of some sort together. You know, like providing billions to bail out the wildlife preservation while the people here starve, both pink and brown. You know how that goes, darling. It's not till you're starving that you'll do anything to survive. That's when you find you your true colour.

They've beefed up security across this land as there's not much choice left but to steal. Oh, and they steal the most wonderful things. Fruits of passion, not to mention clothing.
Yes, they're simply ripe for revolution. Banks, cars, industries, farming, insurance?
Really, darling, who needs such trivial things? There's just simply gads and gads of beautiful things to be had and the government is hording it all! How disastorous. How tragic.

China? Oh, darling, please don't make me weep. The quality is atrocious and never will do as long as people have passion for fashion and are starving.

Yes, a revolution is going to do quite nicely in this land of pinks and browns. Isn't it strange when you find a country you think doesn't deserve a silver spoon, but they do? It's sweeping 'cross the ocean I hear. America's in its own hour of despair. Well, I heard their government is giving away money to no one they can recall and everyone they do recall has to sign up for the dole should they want a meal, not to mention fashionable clothing. I just can't imagine. It's too much for me to linger over.

Yes, my sleeping Africa. How proud I am of its people. They're coming together to form a revolution and doing it in style! They're closing the government down and taking over the stores. How marvelous. What a splendid idea. Fashion first, darling. Always do it in style, no matter what it is you're doing, even stealing to survive.

And the colour combination...pink and brown. Stunning.

-Jacqueline

MY SLEEPING AFRICA

Oh darling, we're on safari this morning, though it's narely (is that a word?) 4a.

The bush looks brown from here, but it's still dark, you know? And I'm in dire need of some harsh Kenya coffee.

The elephants look fat, but they're far away at this point. Actually, they look lazy and fat. Perhaps Americanized. Perhaps wearing computer chips in diamond studded collars.

I need to wire something to the Post by late this evening and things just don't seem quite right. Not for safari.

We need some animals in action. You know, like charging toward us or something.

I want Pamplona!

Oh, wait, there's a native up ahead.

Let me get my recorder for an interview:

Me: So where are you traveling, sir, on this fine dark morning?

Native: umblaho neora nor la ramnboina

Me: Oh. That sounds lovely. Whatever shall you do there?

Native: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr........

Me: My. Well, that might be a bit dangerous, don't you think? However, that's quite the stunning outfit you're wearing. Custom made? What a terrific sporty print you're wearing.

Native: Oh, this old thing? Let's talk about the new spring fashions showing in Paris.

Me: Oh darling, yes, let's us do. This safari thing has truly worn me down. And I love, just love that colour against your brown skin. Quite lovely actually.

Native: Who does your hair?

Me: Oh, you wonderful man, you do know my language.

-Jacqueline