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