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