Column-Fodder

The Blonde has finally made it into a Sunday newspaper's society column! She had become quietly desperate about it; verging on being a Gossip-Rapist, insistently asserting her attentions on the columnist. I guess in the end, Ms Saunders threw the beggar a bone of mercy. Frankly, The Blonde doesn’t quite have what it takes; her husband isn’t quite rich enough, and they aren’t quite good-looking and stylish enough to be column-fodder. If she made Mr Blonde over, and got him out of his rumpled work shirts, it might help, too.

Mrs S has been in Metro many times; which guaranteed much hilarity, as the Metro photographer’s forte is snapping people looking utterly foolish (usually eating). The best social barometer I know, is having a Metro Magazine photographer in the room. Those who don’t want/require an appearance in the mag, freeze in subdued poses at the photographer's appearance; the attention-whores start stuffing food in their mouths with a gay abandon and laughing like loons. I am neither rich enough nor interesting enough to be photographed on my own merit, and as I don’t tend to voluntarily eat in public, I have avoided any such indignities. I do, however, have a decade-old copy of Rip-It-Up magazine stashed somewhere, with a photo of me in an absurdly tiny fancy-dress outfit, dancing on a speaker at a night-club.

It’s not the best photo. I blame the copious quantities of drugs and booze for not only the speaker-top dancing, but also the outfit; one's bare skin could hardly be as tight or revealing. Thankfully, the photo was very small. And wasn’t one of the ones taken in the men’s toilets. Yet still, I maintained more dignity in such a state of semi-dressed abandon, than The Blonde did, fully-dressed, and smiling sweetly.