In which I taste the (organic) milk of human kindness
Aaaaaaand sooooooooo. My stadium legend has told me he's written a song . . . about me. ME! I can't tell you what it's called or even if he played it whilst on stage in Edinburgh, otherwise the cat will be out of the bag about his identity and I soooo like to keep you all guessing. Suffice to say that he told me it is better than Wonderwall, that was apparently written about that pouty old boot, PK. What men see in her I'll never know. Anyway, You'll remember that I grabbed my keys prior to heading off to Jockland for coffee and Hogmanay with the RS? Unfortunately, when I got to my BMW/Range Rover/Nic's KA, I found some spiteful prig had slashed all the tyres, so scuppering my rendezvous with him. I was so disappointed that I wouldn't be able to see in the New Year, four weeks early, with my RS, that I'm afraid I shed a few tears. My Blackberry beeped about an hour after I'd found my car had been vandalised, and it was him. 'Are you well on the way?' he asked, which irked me somewhat. I mean, he would be all smug and cosy up in Edinburgh while I'm stuck here, on my own, and with no possible means to travel now. (I don't do filthy public transport.) 'No!' I snapped. 'I'm still here, and what would you care anyway?' I told him about my car and he offered to send his chauffeur down immediately to collect me, but I was having none of it. 'No! don't you dare do that! It would make it a very expensive coffee and you clearly have something better to do afterwards. Why don't you go and f**k off!' He tried to persuade me to change my mind but I told him I couldn't hear him, as I'm deaf. So that looks like that. It's over.
After spending a miserable New Year, all on my own, I travelled down to London, for work, and was surprised to find some packages, wrapped in tinselly paper, on my desk. Addressed simply to Liz Jones, YOU magazine, I was delighted to find that at least some people are genuinely kind and thoughtful, and must have known that I wouldn't be getting any presents at Christmas time. I unwrapped the first one and out tumbled a video of a film called Play Misty for Me. It turned out to be the story of some crazed woman stalking a famous DJ, clearly not getting it that he wasn't interested but persisting with her crackpot campaign. I was unsure why my fan would have sent that, but the thought was there I suppose. I unwrapped another and found it was a copy of Billy Liar. I flicked through the pages and discovered it was the story of a horrid, Northern oik who spent his life telling lies and then couldn't remember what, or to whom, he'd lied about. What a disturbed character! I opened the remaining package and was overjoyed to find a travel ticket. I haven't had a holiday in thirty years, remember, so this was exciting. Unfortunately, on further inspection, I discovered it was a one-way ticket to South Georgia. Now I'm sure the penguins are very cute and all, but I doubt they've got wi-fi and how would I get back, for work?
Oh well, my work has told me I've got a photo-shoot to do, modelling the latest Vera Wang collection of floating chiffons and buttery soft leather headscarves. I must say though, that I'm getting sick of sticking on that bloody transfer of the prancing shire horse on my arm. Now was it the right one or the left?