(Sitting in for me for a second day, it's Leonora Madd, former society editor of "The Countrylady" and now resident somewhere in an imaginary Mallorca.)
Isn't Mallorca simply wonderful at this time of the year.
The association's tombola and dinner dance were both huge successes, and what a marvellous surprise that Captain Portillo should turn up and wish us all a merry Christmas. It was regrettable that Hugo had to leave with the Captain, especially as he had been so assiduous in making the DVDs that he had kindly then donated as third prize. But he was back home by Christmas Eve and said that the Captain is a great film fan.
Some members did of course head orf to Magalluf. What a frightful place. Needless to say, Vivienne Milfman organised the charabanc and the whole affair. Well she would, what with coming from Clacton! The woman has no style, and as for that spiv of a husband of hers.
Of course, it's all lottery money. She was no more than a barmaid, though she insists she was a publican. Not that this should be anything to boast about. The authorities really should have a fit-and-proper person's test before letting in some of the riff-raff that we're getting now. That villa of theirs is simply hideous. Done up like a Turkish brothel. Knowing that crook at Inmobiliaria Chicoancho, it would not surprise me in the slightest if, even with the millions from Camelot, she had paid black. What a relief though that she had gone, as she would have insisted that the Reverend had a karaoke at the carol service on Christmas Eve.
Clarissa rang on Christmas Day. It was just too much to think of her unable to be with us for Christmas luncheon and having to make do with couscous and a bottle of lemonade. And she wouldn't even be watching the Queen! Apparently Mohammed had commandeered the home-cinema system so that he could practise some video or other that he was making.
Giles had insisted on inviting Johnny Utterly and that Russian girl he's taken up with. Daphne will be turning in her grave, and it's only six months since the awful accident when the satellite dish fell on her. Natasha, she calls herself. Claims to be descended from Tsar Nicholas, but what she's doing in Palma, Heaven only knows. In my days at "The Countrylady", all the gals from European royal stock had themselves pied-à-terres in St. John's Wood. Johnny is rather vague as to her line of work. It won't last of course. She's barely out of her gymslip, and he's drawing his pension. At least Hugo and she seemed to hit it orf. Indeed Hugo seemed to know her already, though for the life of me I can't think from where.
The pheasants, and thank you all for asking, were of course the highlight.
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