As usual, my dear friend Veronica, the supermodel, has flown in for my birthday*, bringing exotic gifts and scandalous gossip.
Once again her luggage went missing at Heathrow, and she was hopping mad. "My Manolo Blahniks are gone, and my divine Gucci handbag. Not to mention my Rampant Rabbit. They're probably in the hands of some Mumbai slum-dweller."
"But sweetie, you're always saying you want to help the poor. Now you have. I bet your Rampant Rabbit is giving someone enormous pleasure at this very moment."
"Huh" she snorted. "Why don't they just get off their bums and make another blockbuster like Slumdog Millionaire? They should stop wallowing in poverty."
Sometimes V is so politically incorrect, it's excruciating. I thought of showing her the door, but I was simply dying to hear all that celebrity gossip. She goes to the same gym as Madonna, so she knows absolutely everything.
"Well, happy six-two, you old rascal" she said, handing me a huge beribboned package. Inside was a giant carton of Viagra. She kissed me extravagantly and whispered in my ear "That should keep you going all night, lover boy."
"You're too good to me, sweetie I said. "You know just what an old man needs."
"Of course I do. I'll tell you what I need, a new chauffeur. Sam's taking too many liberties. He can't keep his hands on the steering wheel. And he's gabbing to the tabloids."
"Poor you. Just get rid of him."
"I can't. Then he'll tell the tabloids every f***ing thing. Including the business with Amy and Kylie."
"Oh God, that must never come out. How about a tragic accident?"
"Good idea. Talking of tragic accidents, don't you dare get me pregnant again."
"Shush, I'm meant to have heroically fought off your advances umpteen times."
"Of course you have, my darling."
Photo of Veronica Trinket courtesy of Trinket Offshore Investments
* March 20
