Baseless rumours

For some years now the media have been suggesting that the supermodel Veronica Trinket and myself are an item. I keep denying this baseless rumour but they still spread it at every opportunity. Even stern legal warnings from Sue, Grabbit and Runne don't deter them.

Anyone with half a brain can see how absurd this idea is. Firstly, I'm very happily married to a red-hot spouse. Secondly, what on earth would a twenty something supermodel see in a crumbling oldie like myself? Thirdly, I suspect there's no such person as Veronica Trinket but the media haven't even bothered to check.

The willowy young blonde who frequently visits me while my partner is away from home is certainly not this Trinket person. She is simply the landscape gardener who tends to the shrubs and young trees when they need some attention. On occasion I offer her a cup of tea or a chocolate biscuit, but absolutely nothing else is offered or asked for. It's true that she bears a slight resemblance to Ms Trinket but that's obviously a mere visual coincidence.

The grainy photos of a smiling young girl, strongly implied to be the secret love-child of our clandestine relationship, are plainly faked by some enterprising newshound whose journalistic career is faltering. The missing left ear and the toeless right foot clearly suggest some rather clumsy fabrication.

As for those doddery old gits who stop me in the street and ask me what my secret is and how they can "grab a bit of the girlie action", I shoo them away with a contemptuous snort. All I'm grabbing at my age is blood pressure pills and reading glasses. They shouldn't believe everything they hear.

Pic: an alleged photo of the alleged Veronica Trinket

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....

The Life of Riley

It so often seems that other people have much better lives than yourself, that they're gliding through everything effortlessly while you're struggling against the odds and meeting one obstacle after another.

Parents think couples without children have got it easy, workers think the bosses have got it easy, and Joe and Joanna Public think celebs have got it easy.

But what do we really know about other people's lives when usually all we see is the carefully crafted facade they present to the world? People go to amazing lengths to conceal the awkward truth and pretend they're coping brilliantly with life's difficulties.

They don't reveal the panic attacks or the mortgage arrears or the husband's porn stash or the son's pyromania. They don't reveal their constant fear that their job is beyond their abilities or their social skills are lacking or they're totally incompetent parents.

What's really tragic though is when someone is so convinced that other people have far superior lifestyles they go to desperate lengths to imitate them.

Like the bank clerk who embezzles thousands of pounds to get a swish house and a flashy car, or parents who bankrupt themselves in the belief that a £20,000 wedding outdoes a £2,000 one. Or teenage girls who spend meagre wages on extortionate designer clothes to feel like jetsetting supermodels.

And even when people know full well that the imagined Life of Riley is more like Dead End Gulch, they still pursue the dream regardless. We all know by now that many supermodels are on a gruelling treadmill of dieting, purging, exercising and plastic surgery, yet there are plenty of young girls aching to be in their shoes and hating what they see as the mediocrity and pointlessness of their existing lives. The golden images have a life of their own.