IN WHICH I OUT THE RS
I value my privacy as if it were platinum. (Conversely, other people's privacy is like Elizabeth Duke jewellery and can treated like an Argos catalogue.) But I have kept you all on tenterhooked eggshells long enough. Everywhere I go I hear people whispering. And sometimes I hear the words "should be in put in the stocks" but perhaps they are saying "should be in cashmere socks". My hearing is bad, you know.
Anyway, all my family died. And my horse got laryngitis. I was all alone, feeding Harrods prime pilchards to Mini Poopy, Mickey and Flange, my new stray sheep, when I heard the impatient purring of His Maserati.
OH FCK I thought. WHY ME WHY NOW. "Darling girl," he said piggily, in his delightful Highland brogue, "I've had enough of this cloak and dagger business, I'm going to out myself. I'm going to tell the world how proud I am to be at your borderline-anorexic side". Twenty five years ago I would have swooned at such words. I flicked a pilchard head off the Egyptian cotton sheets.
Oh fcuk it, I thought. I'm going to have to come clean. OK. He's the lead singer in Black Lace. Happy now?