Going to see the most recent Bridget Jones film made me remember all the fun that I had writing this spoof blog in 2010.
Secret Diary of Cherry Lockheart a Corset Lover –Continued again
Thursday
Well, it took me all Wednesday to decide that Hunter hadn’t really winked at me, but it must be that he suffers from hay fever, or that he was winking at Paradise who is our resident tea person. She only took the job on when she had to abandon her professional career as a stripper. She’s in her seventies, but still looks very glamorous, and if you only saw her from behind you’d think she was in her twenties. She occasionally strips for charity and she’s good, believe me, I’ve seen her. She’s able to bend in places I’ve never been able to. Paradise gave up her career when she got married for a third time in her fifties, because her husband was somewhat of a family man and didn’t like the idea. Pity she gave up stripping in a way, because just after they got married he was arrested and twenty years later he’s still in jail. Apparently, he was a big crime boss with Mafia connections, which is why she’s a tea person. He still keeps a very close eye on her activities, but she must be the most stunning tea lady any company has ever had. Today she is wearing a short blue Versace skirt that looks as if it is made from plastic table cloth material, glittery espadrille style shoes by Jimmy Choo and her Gucci red suede handbag is hooked on the side of her trolley. She looks stunning so no wonder Hunter winked at her. She also acts as our agony aunt, and must spend every penny of the money she makes on nipping out to buy us ‘real’ Italian coffees out of her own money to cheer up me and the other less than lucky in love members of our company. Someone asked her once how she could afford such amazing clothes, and she just laughed and said, “Well, you know they just fell out of the back of a Ferrari as it sped past”, which I thought was a neat way of saying that they were ‘gifts’ from her Italian ‘family’ connections.
I’m in a meeting, I know that I should be paying attention, and trying to convince a posse of accountants from an American finance corporation that we can provide them with the most effective, efficient and energetic temps for inputting data, but thankfully they’ve co-opted Gill and Phil for the presentation. They’ve been buzzing around the office for the last couple of days like queen bees, and I suspect that the meeting they had with Hunter on Monday caused it, but they are not giving anything away. I do have to add that for once I don’t mind the devilish duo taking centre stage. It means that I don’t have to strain my brain cells on trying to work out how accountants who love money so much, and who seem to have a lot of it don’t do anything with it. After all what’s the point of having gilt shares, or whatever they are if you don’t have fun with the profit they make for you. It’s it bit like having a platinum credit card and framing it so that you can just stare at it and admire it. Not, my problem, exactly. It gives me a chance to think about my fitting last night and the outfit I’m going to wear to Wimbledon. The skirt is like an old-fashioned tennis skirt with pleats and I’m wearing some flat, but twinkly white silver pumps. Davina decided that I wouldn’t be safe at Wimbledon on high heels, she is most probably right. The corset is called Victorious, which is pretty appropriate although I won’t be at the finals, but anyway it’s one of the SNOB range and is white with black stripes. The effect of the stripes is incredible, because it makes you look as if you’ve got even more of an hourglass shape. Anyway everything fits, but I’ve had to promise not to get any strawberry stains on it, because they want me to join Ruby and some other models later at the opening of an art gallery.
“What do you think about the coffee situation?” Why did I write that? Oh! Someone is asking me a question.
Afternoon
What an idiot I am or is it am I? Anyway, when I answered: “Yes, great idea, let’s all get coffee,” everyone except Gill and Phil laughed. They just gave me one of their gargoyle stares and Gill said, “Trust our resident wit to come up with that one,” but one look at her eyes told me that she really meant ‘twit’ and not ‘wit’. Anyway, the Americans didn’t notice and in fact I think they’d had enough of the presentation, because they caved in and agreed to Gill’s proposal after they’d finished their coffee, and she suggested that they carried on with the presentation. Much as I loathe Gill, she is good at her job.
Monday again!
Thank God, and Christian Dior for sunglasses is all I can say/write! Davina was quite right in providing me with a light white spider-web like shawl to cover my shoulders otherwise I would have roasted. The match on the centre court went on for ages, and even though the players are prime specimens they couldn’t possibly match up to Hunter in my eyes. Must mention, while I remember, dear diary that the seats were great as we were right at the front and must have cost an awful lot. They might be tall, handsome and good at playing tennis, but there is something about a man in a suit, well, Hunter in a suit. Everything went along swimmingly until the strawberries arrived. I’d opted for a dollop of ice cream instead of cream. The match was at one of those tense moments when the very young man with a long foreign sounding name was about to serve. Apparently, I found out afterwards that it was one of those make or break tie-things that they have. Anyway, my sunglasses were very strong and made it a bit difficult to focus. Hence when I took a spoonful of ice cream it missed its intended destination, which was my mouth. Instead it went down my cleavage. All would have been well if I hadn’t leant forwards and put my fingers down my cleavage in order to retrieve the ice cream before it melted. At that precise moment the young tennis player looked my way and saw me. It put him off his serve, because he hit the ball so hard that it knocked out the umpire man on the funny tall seat, and they had to stop play. Apparently, nothing like it had ever happened in the history of Wimbledon. Thankfully, because I was wearing sunglasses no one would have recognised me even though they keep running me trying to fish out the ice cream on the sports TV channels. Although what it has got to do with sport I’m not quite sure. I managed to escape when they stopped play, and borrowed some baby wipes and managed to clean out the ice cream before I was surrounded by wasps. Unfortunately, the young man didn’t win the match in the end, but they said he was sure to do better next time and that the site of my cleavage hadn’t really affected the outcome of the match the umpire was only temporarily stunned, thankfully. Funny, I’ve never liked tennis particularly and even at school thought it was a dangerous game. However, I think that I prefer it to art gallery openings.
No one realised I was the woman from the Wimbledon corset debacle at the gallery. I wasn’t wearing the sunglasses, or the shawl and I was wearing heels. If they’d got close enough to me they might have realised though, because I smelt strongly of vanilla ice cream. I didn’t have time to go back home and shower. Although, Davina sidled up to me and whisper, “Well done, I see that you managed not to get any strawberry stains on your corset,” and then she laughed. I wrote ‘sidled up’, because that’s what we she had to do. We, the models with the exception of Ruby who glided around looking like a bright, fresh sparking summer day and wearing a SNOB delicate pale green corset with adjustable dainty straps, which is ideal for petite ladies like Ruby, WE had to stand still and pretend we were statues. They placed us next to massive hunks of bronze and stone that had been carved, or melted something technical. We had to stand there all evening and by the end I was exhausted. The only two positives were that I was paid an enormous amount of money, enough to clear my credit card debts ++, and that Davina has emailed me to say that unfortunately they hadn’t been able to organise a ticket to one of the Queen’s garden parties, but they’d booked me for Henley instead, and that there was now a waiting list of people who had ordered the Victorious corset.
Lunchtime
He knows. Hunter knows. I know he knows at least I think he does. I was doing penance at the photocopier for Gill as she’d sort of rescued me over the coffee mix up with the Americans. I was standing there while the machine collated all these reports for Ms. Goodie Two-Choos when Hunter’s deep male voice said in soft silky tones, “Not, wearing your sunglasses today then?” As fate would have it I was totally paralysed with fear that if I turned around to face him I’d drop the copies I was holding, and so I pretended not to hear. When I did turn around he’d gone. What should I do dear diary, what should I do?
Secret Diary of Cherry Lockheart a Corset Lover – Next episode
Tuesday
Sorry, diary I feel like a traitor. I know that I haven’t written since Henley, but at least my question about Hunter was answered loud and clear.
I drove down to the Royal Henley Regatta in a chauffeur driven car with Davina. Having the door opened by a chauffeur made me realise what it must be like to be famous. People actually took photographs of me as I waited with Davina to gain entry into some sort of elite rowing club venue called Leander. By the time we arrived it was already hot and I was only too glad that along with the classic blue overbust corset by The Biz called Modesty that I was wearing the team who’d done my hair and make-up had also provided me with a broad brimmed straw boater with satin bow around it that matched the corset. They also loaned me these glossy gold sunglasses by Dior, which cost over £800. Thankfully they told me that if I lost them they were insured. I didn’t like to ask them what would happen if I chewed the ends of the arms. When I’m nervous I have a bad habit of sucking and chewing the arms. I decided that the safest bet was not to mention it and if I did chew them then they might just get lost accidently, but on purpose. Part of the deal of getting into the event is that you have to wear a skirt and that it must be below the knee. So they’d managed to squeeze me into this impossibly tight white skirt that did reach below my knees. When I was actually in it I was amazed that I could move relatively easily and could even walk in it when I was safely perched on these wedge heeled shoes with straps that looked as if they were made of straw, but felt like silk. Even if I say so myself, I felt very confident until I was confronted by all these positively gorgeous men either dressed in body hugging lycraish shorts or smart light weight summer suits. I’m not sure which disturbed me this most. Anyway, this club called Leander is a curious set up. You’ve got to be a champion-type rower or something like that to be asked to join and then you have to wear pink socks. Some of them were wearing pink ties and others ties with hippos on them. They appeared to be hippo mad, and I was presented with a pink toy stuffed hippo and a pink and gold hippo stick pin which one of their important members (who must have been at least sixty, but still very fit!) appeared to take great pleasure in pinning it on my corset. Davina explained that I was part of a corporate sponsorship deal and so I was supposed to be advertising the corset, but also promoting another company as well. The club’s been going since 1818 and was clearly the place to be seen. I could see that Pimms, strawberries and smoked salmon were all being served, but I was desperate for a mug of tea as I’d overslept and hadn’t had any time for breakfast and so as soon as I could escape smiling and nodding politely to the people I was introduced to as the Wimbledon girl I made a dash (as fast as my wedged heels would carry me) towards the hospitality area.
