Pink Piggy Extra - Phoebe Visits Luxor
Pink Piggy Extra
Phoebe Visits Luxor
by Phoebe Windsor
Just returned from my brief stay at the Winter Palace and as requested I was met by Hamid, a driver to die for, and the answer is no, I didn’t. I had a wonderful time and hope to return very soon.
Well, it all started off on the wrong foot, Clarissa would take umbrage (dictionary please) because I refused to stay at her villa on the West Bank. However, I did cross the river to have lunch with her but the whole place was covered in dust, and I soon discovered that the adjoining villa had been the victim of an attack by a rampant bulldozer whose driver apparently had a personal vendetta against Noddy.
In fact, I arrived just in time to see our ersatz (French dictionary) ‘heroine’ performing, as I thought, a rendering of his version of the dying swan in Swan Lake. However he was still in the pirouetting stage of attempting a solo pas de deux on his pointed plastic shoes, and screaming in a falsetto (dictionary) voice, Sandy! Sandy! Leafy! Leafy! Pleezy! Pleezy! Helpy! Noddy! At the same time he was beating the driver with his ubiquitous (dictionary) new carrier bag. All very Monty Python, I haven’t been so amused in years. In fact, I noticed one lady with long hair to her waist screaming with glee. I did think that rather cruel but the heart has its reasons. I’ve forgotten who said that but I must believe it was justified in this case.
Naturally, I met with most of the other writers, Christopher, Ruby and several who remain anonymous. Ruby is so very, very common but such a doll. Mother always told me not to speak with the tradesmen, something to do with catching things but she never explained what. I did ask Ruby and she said in that southern twang, ‘Well honey iffa ya doan know now is better a doant tell ya. Iffa dem nebba bitten ya fanny ya shure is lucky. Me, a bin bitten more time dan Sandy done fart and dats a lotta times a done tells ya.’
Clarissa introduced me to her houseboy and I felt a faint flutter around my left one, the place where I pin mother’s sapphire and diamond fob watch, incidentally given to her the night she lost it. Again, she never told me what she lost. Sometimes I feel I have missed out on a lot by restricting my reading to Anita Brookner and Jane Austin and would have been better with Jackie Collins, strictly forbidden by you know who. Incidentally, Clarissa’s houseboy Omar one of our informers, who works part time for our intrepid Interpol investigator commonly known as Roving Reporter, claims that Noddy is a fully paid up member of the violet brigade and has always been.as free as a fairy. I am sure Sandy has advised him that he is walking on thin ice.
Naturally, I bumped into the girls, those darling devotees of the violet shadows, Sandy, Leafy, Noddy and Du’nstan, all decked out for their midnight cavorting at those ‘very, very special gatherings’ on the West Bank. Clarissa gets to know about all this from Omar who previously was an assistant to our misfits when they briefly had the strip joint behind the railway station. Needless to say he is in their confidence, the suckers! To move on our heroes/heroines have gone down since then and, to put it politely, they are now on their uppers.
Apparently, they all had such wild ambitions when they arrived in Luxor and before they continued on the slippery road to nowhere. Their plans to take over businesses started by the entrepreneurial foreigners, plagiarizing ideas, absconding with money, forgery, blasphemy and most of the seven deadly sins, (gluttony in Sandy’s case) denigrating all and sundry, are victims to their brains being located where most of us sit on. Or, as Ruby so succinctly (dictionary) said, ‘Dem is up to dem neck in s**t and dem doant know dem arse from dem head.’ She has such a concise and direct way of saying things that is almost poetical, but I don’t think she and mummy would have seen eye to eye.
Anyhow, to leave the gutter behind us, I must say I had a frightfully happy time and most of the foreigners there get on with their lives and leave the sleaze to these deadbeats.
I must get on. Clarence and Mark have booked to come down for a short break. Clarence you know works on the ladies underwear counter in Harvey Nichols and Mark his flatmate gave me that darling Fragonard. That picture still keeps me awake and Clarissa has ordered three of them for her bedroom. Why she bothers when she has that darling houseboy I will never know, but she was always a snob.
I had an appointment to see some Liverpudlian nobody about buying a property but Ruby in no uncertain terms and again in her succinct vocabulary, advised me ‘dat woman she done have mout like crocodile so ya betta go mix wi da devil instead.’ I think it is that wannabee Gangagrab Ruby bumped into. I believe she specialises in property that is up for the jump, or should I say the dump.
Ruby just done tell me dem facts of life!
WaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaOooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
p.s. I must watch myself as the vicar is due to call for tea, he might just get something else besides dem piss poor Marie biscuits.
Pps. The words in parenthesis (dictionary) are for Sandy’s benefit whose vocabulary I am told is repetitive (dictionary) to say the least. I am also informed it can go on and on for hundreds of pages and those strings behind the loo doors are dragging them off their effing hinges.
(All Pink Piggy Tales are fictional and any similarity between persons living or dead is purely co-incidental).
