My son attends a well-known prep school and was invited to a birthday party. But rather than the usual happy scenes – fat kid stuffing his face with jelly, psycho kid drowning nervous kids in the paddling pool, and of course cross dad swearing because the bouncy castle won’t inflate – I was met by a white stretch limo. The kids were herded in by the mother, who was dressed in matching white stilettos and a skirt so economically cut that even Abbey Clancy might have found it a bit draughty. Then they simply drove around our local town in the stretch for two hours.
While on-board I gather the ten kids just played video games and stuffed their faces with McDonalds. It was the dumbest, dullest birthday party you could possibly imagine. Needless to say, my son loved it.
Answer: Are you sure you didn’t stray onto the set of TOWIE? It sounds hideous (we are talking sub-Victoria Beckham here). Just for your education, a limousine should always be British, either a Rolls Royce or Daimler, and be of greater vintage than the occupant. Oh, and like my occasional taste in men (don’t tell daddy – he makes Prince Philip look liberal) it must be black. Anything else, and the chances are the car is bigger than the occupant’s house.
In this case it sounds as if the father probably made his money in banking (robbing them), while mama is a retired prostitute or florist. My advice is to invite the charming couple to a party (dress: boiler suits) and give your address as the local MOT centre. If the mum likes cars so much, she can get to work on a greasy big end.
Dealing with Amorous Andy
I was woken at 3am by my 17-year-old daughter last Friday night. She had just received an anguished call from her best friend Annabel who was walking down a lane in the wilds of Sussex. The friend had been in bed with her boyfriend Andy but the quite wretched young man had just demanded she let him perform a sex act on her. Said act might have been alright for Oscar Wilde but not, I staunchly insist, for a girl of 17. He also announced that he intended to film it all. When Annabel demurred, this budding Francis Ford Coppola announced that unless she performed as directed, she could consider herself heartily dumped.
So the poor thing was thrown out of the (rural) house in tears. But she felt unable to ring her parents as it would have involved awkward explanations (she was officially at a girlfriend’s sleepover in her onesie, enjoying a DVD of The Sound of Music). So feeling I had little choice but to do the decent thing, I shook my husband awake and ordered him to collect her; we do like to help.
I still feel so angry about the young man’s behaviour. I know these young men get
ideas from internet porn which would never even occur to my husband (thank God he has no imagination). Andy’s papa is a frightfully proper City sort and a stickler for good morals. What would you suggest I do please?
Answer: The tradesman’s entrance is strictly for deliveries from Fortnum’s. There should be a no-admittance policy for other meat products. The only exception to this is when one gentleman is hosting another, as they have fewer amenities open to them. Heterosexual gentlemen should always use the front door, and even then, only ever when they have been invited to do so.
Revenge is simple. Get some tart cards printed and plaster them in every phone box in the district, advertising the son’s sexual interests. Underneath, put his home number. Just sit back and imagine the prim stockbroker’s usually smug face when he takes a heavy, deep, telephonic communication asking for “Back Street Andy”.
Designed out of the picture
The 16-year-old son of a famous designer
held a party last weekend at the family home (an amazing glass affair that has featured in magazines). But because the parents were so worried about gate-crashers and the
address being posted on Facebook, the location wasn’t released until an hour before the start. This turned out to be in the next county and in the middle of nowhere. So
my son had no way of getting him there on time, so I had to drive him. When I arrived, the parents took one look at me and told me to return at midnight. The parents are dreadful snobs and I had a good mind to go in and tell them so. What do you think?
Answer: I think you sound very chippy. They probably thought you were the chauffeur.
Sussex Style slaloms to rescue
I am so confused where to send my child. All these schools produce such glossy brochures and every parent talks up the school they have sent their child to, as if to justify their choice. And there is such a difference in
price between private schools. Help!
Answer: It is understandable you feel confused. Where to send my children was the hardest decision to make other than where to go skiing (eventually I plumped for Verbier, but I am having sleepless nights over it).
But fear not. Next month is the education special of Sussex Style. And each month your favourite magazine will feature many of the best schools in Sussex, getting beneath the PR patter to give you the best advice for the second most important decision you will ever have to make. Oh, and there will be stuff on skiing too.
Open plan dying
What do we think of people knocking through their kitchen into the lounge to create one giant room on the ground floor?
Answer: We don’t approve. “Lounges” are only acceptable in airports, preferably under a sign marked “VIP”. Some people seem to think cooking their imitations of a Heston Blumenthal recipe is performance art; it is not. Why not go the whole hog and make the lavatory open plan – or “toilet” as you probably call it?
Postman, to pat or not to pat?
We live in a barn with big windows and I was sitting on the lav enjoying a quiet tinkle recently when a face appeared at the window.
It was the postman with one of my daughter’s endless eBay deliveries which needed signing for. Rather than looking awkward, he waved cheerily and waited for me to come to the door.
All of which would have been bad enough except I was wearing little more than Channel No5 as had only just returned from the gym and was going to dive in the shower. Now whenever he sees me he is all chatty and cheeky.
I must not have been cc’d in the email which said that your postman reserves the right to become your best friend. I want to put him in his place but equally don’t want the Harrods food hamper that mummy sends at Christmas to end up burnishing the postman’s family xmas table in Crawley. Advice please, dear.
Answer: Firstly, ladies never tinkle. They can pee, or even in extremis piss, but never tinkle.
Secondly, suffering servants and staff is what we do. You simply have to be nice to them because that way they still do for us what we want.
Finally, stop being so middle class about it. Offer him some. That way you can be guaranteed a nice parcel in your postbox.
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