Crystal balls

Just what will my future bring? I really want some clarity here, I don't like being in the dark about the rest of my life. So I decided to consult the renowned Esme Plunge, clairvoyant and palmist, the oracle all the celebs swear by. Well, Harry Potter anyway.

I sidled warily into her gawdy consulting room, with its oriental knicknacks, flocked wallpaper and red-tinted lighting. Why do psychics always go in for such aesthetic vulgarity?

Her androgynous appearance, consisting of a heavy, muscular physique in a frilly blouse, a long floral skirt and three inch heels, made me wonder if she was a transvestite or a trainee transexual. I tried to concentrate on the matter in hand.

She peered intently into her crystal ball. "Ah, I see a wonderful future for you, dear. You will win three million pounds in the lottery, marry a famous actress and become a dog-breeder. I'm so pleased for you, darling."

"But I never do the lottery" I said. "I'm already happily married to the world's sexiest woman and I can't stand dogs - boisterous, slobbering, yapping, half-witted creatures. I'm afraid your crystal ball must be out for lunch."

"Oh no, dear, that's where you're wrong. You may think your life is fixed but the next twelve months will bring big changes, very big indeed. Hold on to your clutch bag, you're in for a bumpy ride."

I fixed her with a steely glare. "I've never heard such 24-carat bollocks" I said. "If you're a clairvoyant, I'm a rattlesnake. Be warned, I shall report you to Trading Standards in the morning. Good day."

As I made good my escape, I heard a volley of foul-mouthed expletives from her consulting room. This is going straight onto Facebook, I thought. Oracle to the stars, my arse. More like Tiffany's epiphanies.

Pic: The extraordinary Esme Plunge.

A masterpiece explained

I was thrilled to hear that Tanzi Twitch, the renowned conceptual artist, has won the Scunthorpe Award for International Art with her ground-breaking piece "Empty Room with Small Mouse and Bad Dream Number 17."

She was interviewed recently by art critic Sophie Slingback, who asked her about her award-winning work.

SS: So what exactly was the intention behind "Empty Room"?

TT: It was to show just how empty a room can be. The infinite emptiness of a space without content. The total absence of expected visual triggers. The absurd non-availability of pizza.

SS: Though a pizza carton did feature briefly in version number 13.

TT: That was an accident. It was left there by Stephanie, my cleaning lady.

SS: I see. But many people have said they can't see the small mouse or the bad dream.

TT: I can't help them. The small mouse and the bad dream may be there or they may not. I thought I saw the mouse yesterday morning but I may have been mistaken. It may have been a truffle. Or a waffle.

SS: What about the bad dream?

TT: There is always a bad dream, wherever you are. A nightmare is always waiting to crawl out and scare you to death. If you look, you'll see the bad dream. It's as plain as can be.

SS: The small mouse is a recurring theme in your work. What does it signify?

TT: You'll have to ask the mouse. I can't speak on its behalf. It may just signify the universal prevalence of recurring themes. Or the presence of unexpected visual triggers. Or a nearby cheese mine.

SS: I thought cheese was a dairy product.

TT: Whatever.

SS: And how would you yourself sum up this masterpiece?

TT: Empty is as empty does. Empty vessels make the most noise.

SS: Brilliant! Sheer genius!

Picture of Tanzi Twitch courtesy of the Plunkett Gallery, Cork Street, London

Veronica's brainpower

Once again my dear friend Veronica, the dazzling supermodel, is keeping me company while Jenny gads off to York and Barcelona on academic business.

And once again she's fuming at the hacks. "The arseholes still think all models are airheads. They make me sick. For f***'s sake, I've got a degree in modern languages, I'm a member of Mensa and I've got a private pilot's licence. What more do they want?"

She was striding up and down the sweltering conservatory in her four inch stilettoes, leaving a trail of crumbs from her blueberry and cinnamon muffin.

"And what am I reading? 'Positionality in the postcolonial African narrative.' I ask you, does that make me an airhead?"

"No, just pretentious, sweetie. Anyway, who cares about these media morons? They wouldn't recognise an original idea if it flew into them. They just love a string of clichés, the longer the better."

But Veronica was miles away. She was consumed with rage, tearing the menu for Pronto Takeaway Pizzas into smaller and smaller pieces. I couldn't take my eyes off her astonishingly tight T shirt.

"And now the politicos are stalking me as well. They all want to be seen with me. They think they'll look cool and trendy if they're hobnobbing with a famous supermodel. Pathetic. As if I'd be seen dead with those lying, egocentric careerists. They don't give a toss about ordinary people, they just want to line their own pockets. But they won't leave me alone. Gordon would love to meet you. David has always admired you. Give me a break."

Her tantalising breasts were heaving seductively under her T shirt. I did my best to concentrate on what she was saying. My head was spinning and my heart was racing.

"Nicky darling, are you listening to me? You look a bit distracted."

"I was just envying your exceptional intelligence, sweetie."

"Of course you were."

Pic: Veronica pretending to be camera-shy

Thursday update: All British flights are cancelled today because of the volcanic ash from Iceland. Jenny has rebooked her return flight from Manchester for tomorrow. Lucky me, another night of fun-filled frolics with Ms Veronica....

Veronica's thin skin

My dear friend Veronica, the ravishing supermodel, is in hot water with the media again. They say she's encouraging teenage girls to become anorexic.

Jenny's strutting her stuff at some alleged conference in London, so V is keeping me company as usual. She managed to get into the house only after telling the paparazzi the Prime Minister had been caught in his Soho love nest.

"For f***'s sake" she fumed as she reclined teasingly on the chaise longue. "All I said was that skinny is the biggest high. So frigging what? I can't help it if thousands of warped schoolgirls take that as a green light to eat two lettuce leaves a day and jog themselves to death. It's a free country. Predatory tabloid bastards. They're just jealous because they're all fat as f*** and their wives puke at the sight of them."

"Just chill, sweetie", I said, casually caressing her left thigh. "They're not worth the aggravation. It'll all blow over in a few days when they find someone else to persecute. Just how skinny are you, anyway? I hope you're eating properly, I know what you models are like. Living on fags and adrenalin. I bet you haven't had a meal for days."

"Of course I'm eating properly, mind your own business, you" she replied, guiding my hand further up her delicious flesh. "And I suppose you expect the usual reward for putting me up in your grubby establishment?"

"That's entirely up to you, my darling" I murmured. "I'm a new man, I have no hidden agenda."

"Like f*** you haven't" she snorted. "I hope the bed linen's clean, you old slob. Are you sure Jenny's still in the dark about us? She really doesn't suspect anything?"

"Not a thing. She's totally convinced I'm deep in meditation and tantric chanting at the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss."

"What a trusting soul. So shall we meditate?"

"Ready when you are."

Pic: Veronica in playful mood. © Trinket Enterprises 2009

Veronica's wrinkles

By a lucky coincidence, as Jenny was flying off to an academic conference in Glasgow, my dear friend Veronica, the dazzling supermodel, was jetting in from an assignment in Dubai.

I had the champagne ready as her limo purred up the road. As soon as she'd dismissed the chauffeur and rushed inside to escape the leering paparazzi, she was giving me the low-down on THAT story.

"That f***ing tabloid said I had wrinkles. What shit-faced bastards they all are" she fumed, sprawling seductively across the Cath Kidston cushions. "I don't have any wrinkles, do I, darling?"

"Of course you don't, sweetie" I lied. "Still as smooth as a baby's bottom. Don't take any notice of those vicious toerags. They're just sick with jealousy. How do you keep those fabulous looks, anyway?"

"It's meditation, Nicky. I've discovered this wonderful place, the Order of the Ninth Beatitude. It's run by this fantastic guy called Swami Kevin. He's sooo sexy, that soft, soothing voice like a mountain stream, it turns me to jelly. Anyway, he has this sensational meditation method, it really really works. Ten minutes and I'm so relaxed I'm practically floating. All the stress just melts away. And all those horrid wrinkles. They're all doing it now. Madonna, Kate, Amy, Lily. He's a miracle worker."

"Funny, I heard you'd had a bit of work done, sweetie. A smidge of botox, a discreet nip and tuck."

Veronica stiffened and ran her razor-sharp fingernails down my cheek. "Wash your mouth out, Nicky, that's a very hurtful thing to say. No way would I hand over my precious, God-given body to one of those hack-and-stitch merchants. I swear on my granny's grave, meditation is all I need. Thirty minutes in the morning, thirty minutes in the evening."

"And the odd thirty minutes in Swami Kevin's bedroom?"

"Nicky, you're so mean. His spiritual perfection excludes all forms of physical and carnal lust. He's in a state of permanent bliss that makes such things meaningless."

"Sure, and I'm a pineapple. Those boobs are as tantalising as ever, by the way."

"And your mind's as filthy as ever. Any chance of some booze?"

Pic of the new-look Veronica courtesy of Trinket Holdings