IN WHICH I GET SUMMONED
So. After all my back-breakingly hard work and toil, this is how I get repaid. Let me explain. I was opening tins of caviar for the cats, and jars of truffles for the puppies, when my Blackberry beeped. It was my boss. 'Liz.' he began, 'I need you to attend a meeting. It is very important.' Wow, I thought. My constant slog has finally been recognised and I'm going to get a pay rise. Brilliant! I carefully selected my outfit. Alexander McQueen trouser suit, craftily taken in with safety pins, and my brand new sparkly Jimmy Choo slingbacks - a snip at £650. When I got to my boss's office, I sashayed in and sat on a sumptious leather chair, looking at him expectantly. He coughed. 'Ahem. I am not sure how to broach this, although I have wanted to for some time. It is about the Diary, actually.' I bristled. 'What about my Diary?' I snarled. 'Liz. It has become a parody. Complete unknowns are writing caricatures about it. Mad spoofs if you like, and it is getting embarrassing. You have started on the sick and injured animals nonsense again. Kizzy, or Dizzy or whatever that bloody horse is called, now seems to be on its last scrawny legs. And once again with the dogs. This time one has its leg carved down to the tendons. I, er . . .' I cut in, close to tears by now but also enraged with his lack of humility. 'How dare you!' I seethed. 'Those animals are my bread and soft butter! If I did not keep them going long past their sell by date, I would not have any copy to file!' He shifted uncomfortably in his Jasper Conran, buttery soft leather chair. 'Exactly my point, Liz. Our readers do not really want to read about a menagarie of clapped-out hounds and nags. They want to hear about the Rock Star and whether or not he is a real person. Please try to understand my concerns. The Diary is in real danger of getting pulled.' I narrowed my eyes at him for a full ten seconds, then gave him both barrels. 'How dare you, you horrid, middle-aged high-income married man! I bet your wife is rifling your pockets as we speak, looking for hotel bills and jewellery receipts as evidence of your treachery! When I thnk of all I have done for you, working harder than anyone else on the planet, putting in 180-hour-weeks and not taking a holiday in over fifty years! Of course the Rock Star exists - I've had posters of him on my bloody wall for years! You have not heard the last about this!' With that, I snatched up my Michael Kors tote and stormed from his office, although I could have sworn he muttered something about wanting to hear the last of me! Cretin! By now my Jimmy Choos were starting to chafe my bunions and the slingbacks had rubbed my heels so much, it felt like twin blow torches were scorching my flesh. Well, a girl has to suffer for beauty, doesn't she? When I reached my car, I heard my Blackberry beep. It was him. 'My fair maiden.' he had typed. 'I have penned a madrigal for you, telling the world about my love and devotion. It is to be aired on Classical FM on Valentine's Day. Will you marry me, my darling girl?' Tears of rage glazed my eyes. 'Why don't you just f**k off!' I hissed. Why is my life so awful? Why am I denied happiness like everyone else when all I do is try to bring joy into their lives. Why, dear God. Why?