Chapter 7

 
"I love my Charity Work. I do have a gripe though regarding the issue of expenses that are paid out of the charitys funds to dignitaries and celebrities like myself. They are ludicrous. It's inhuman in this day and age that this size of payment should be allowed, especially when you take into account that the charity funds that they have -  are not just for them. Whilst one has every sympathy with the aims and causes of the various August bodies that I sponsor I can't help thinking that I receive far too little financial reward for my selfless devotion.
 
Diana- Patron of
Kidney Stroke In Children, Hip Replacements for Children, Alzheimer in Children, UNICEM in Children, Autismresolve, Help The Blighted Child, The Charity for Charities for Children, World Health Child Association, Foreign Aid Child Alignment, ChildRehabiltation Nacra, and other worthy causes
 

I Do Everything I Can For Charity

 

I've had to sack my biographer. A trained ape could have done better.

 

So, it's me again. You want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.

 

The only way I can cover costs with a Charity Event is to appear for several charities at once at the same function. The multiplication of the fees (sorry-I should have said expenses) by being paid by several charities at once, only just covers my costs with a little left over.

To my credit I have never ever dropped a charity purely because they were'nt paying as much (the first time) as another one was paying me to attend the same function.

My tax accountant and lawyers at Delay Touchem and Run have advised me that it is in my best interests to support several charities so I do.
And I take these duties seriously, as do the Charities I visit at their huge offices in prestigious West End of London locations, with their plushly carpeted, recently refurbished well appointed
Offices. So here I am today giving unselfishly of myself with "Help The Colourblind Child."which has a regulated Charities no 8978769.
Fashion Tip Alert -You don't need to give money to anything or anyone to be a Charity, you just have to have Charitable Aims, - and be approved by the Charities Commissioners (especially easy if one of them is your uncle- So it goes something like this, 10.31 a.m. Monday Clarissa decides she wants a charity -Hello, Uncle Landed Gentry, I want to set up a charity..........
-OK niecy-poos-go ahead-how many regulated charity numbers do you want? 10.33 a.m. that very Monday a new charity is formed.) That's why there's so many Charities and why so many of them are so similar to others exactly the same but they never merge to conserve their resources and reduce expenses. Why should they-it's too good a fiddle!
 
The Head of this charity is Pippa Prescott-Fairchild-Rees -Blatter, or "Mixer" as she is known by both me and affectionately by her friends. She is under the wrong impression that she is known as " Mixer" for her ability to charm at all levels. The sad truth is that she eats with her mouth wide open like a concrete mixer. Having said that Pippa works almost as hard as I do.  I am led to her lair.  "Not now Diana" she says as I am deposited into the visitor's sofa in her huge personal office. I spread a magazine over the seat and busy myself studying mine host, her sizeable bulk is sheathed in a voluminous Grey Versace suit, Cartier diamond drop earrings fall from her fleshy lobes. Her only redeeming facet as far as I can see is her huge tangled crown of red hair which has never been tamed and blessedly hides most of her facial features. Facially she is best described as a close relative of Cousin "IT" from the Adams Family.
For a full twenty minutes she furiously sign letters, and does other things in a futile attempt to impress me.
I wasn't going to say anything but instead watch in bored disgust as Pippa concentrates on a huge important looking document, her brows furrow, she sucks hard on a biro, flicks pages, then huffs puffs and signs carefully next to the seal.
She then takes a series of important International Telephone Calls from overseas. She mouths a "sorry" to me, and I shrug my shoulders and walk casually from her office out into the plushly carpeted corridor. Thirty Feet down the hall in the adjoining office I see through the tinted glass that Pippa's P.A. Mariella Coles-Jensen-Austin-Healey is red faced, energetically making the series of important International Telephone Calls from overseas that Pippa is "receiving".
I won't embarrass them both today by pointing out that I am aware of this despicable waste of the Charities' hard earned resources. I do not want to jeopardise the expensive huge lunch they'll be standing me. Frankly I am starving and am salivating at the prospect of lunching with Pippa
At least with her you know you'll be going to Restaurant Stomachbuster for a humongous feed.
When I return to Pippa's office she is exhausted.
"Come on Mixer" I say as I offer her my arm to help her lever herself out of the leather swivel recliner that doesn't give her up without a struggle. Now I'm not saying that Pippa is a large lady but Japanese whalers with harpoons etc etc etc ha ha.
With effort Pippa waddles with me to her personal lift and we descend at stomach dropping speed the fourteen floors to the charities' own chauffeur driven diplomatic limousine where her uniformed driver awaits us.
The driver does a double take as we arrive, stares hard at me as if he is frightened, and pulls the peak of his cap down lower over his Oriental face. He holds our door obligingly as we choose our seats.
Pippa is still breathless and wheezing as she takes her perch. Cleverly I've pulled a panel
from her suit jacket as she descends slowly into place and  pull it under me to be my seat protector. The tug on it makes her sit leaning sideways, her oversize head almost in my lap.
As we set off I try to catch the drivers eye in the mirror. He averts his gaze but he knows me, I'm sure of it. Still no matter.
"Can he hear us ?" I ask, nodding towards the Chauffeur.
Pippa shakes her head, no. 
"How long have you had this particular driver-Mixer?" I ask.
A fter a while Pippa recovers her voice " He's only just joined us." She wheezes. "He's Mariella's boyfriend, dontcher know. We couldn't get references for him from his previous employer, they just point blank refused. But Mariella insisted we take him anyway. Apparently although he's a Tiddly Wink he's hung like a stallion "she guffaws.
"Mariella broke my heart when she told me about him. Poor thing, he's got this huge family, most of them are ill or very old and he's their only breadwinner. Apparently he'd been out of work for months before he came to us -and all because his previous employer would not give him a reference. Can you believe it ? He was sacked from that last job where he'd been there no problem for over ten years, just for reading a newspaper, while he was waiting for his passengers to return?"
I agree that it's inhuman. "Who would do such a thing. Tut tut. The world we live in, eh?"
Before long we find ourselves pulling up at - oh shit - The Ivy -the bloody foodless Ivy and before too much time has passed we both unhappily find ourselves pushing our untouched roundel of celery past our untouched artistically shaped blade of lettuce and bypassing the untouched sliver of red tomato.
The tedium is relieved as Mixer is approached at our table by minor celebrities muscle mountain Frankee Bruney and Cockney muppet Jamie Bollivant who are todays pucker ups. We both get air kissed. Bollivant is pitching an idea hard to Mixer. He reckons he could have a TV show where unemployed youngsters are groomed by him on TV to become master chefs "like wot e is" he adds. He goes on to say that some of them could even be disadvantaged for example "Colourblind" he says, selling fervently. .
Mixer says she will consider it which is Charity speak for "Fuck off" or in Sloane language "ferk awf" and will get back to him at some point in the future, which of course means never. 
We both almost wet ourselves laughing once he's gone.The prospect of giving out our hard earned charity money is ludicrous. Even more so to a loser like him. He should go advertise Sainways instead" I tell Pippa, - our booth rocks with laughter.
When we are recovered from our humour and the untouched plates are gathered away we make our exit. Pippa signs for £113.62 plus the  customary £25 tip on the Charity's own special "slate" and off we go.
The driver, slightly apprehensive looks up from furiously polishing the car as we re-appear. I see his muscles ripple beneath his shirt. Observing his crutch region I can see the trouser material stretched wide, no doubt with that Mariella finds attractive. Hurriedly he dons his jacket and rushes to welcome us with open doors.
The journey back, me once more sitting on a fold of Pippas grey jacket is uneventful.
Striding purposefully ahead from the lift I catch Mixers PA Mariella in the huge open plan expense of the office - in the act of shredding with the office shredder noisily going nineteen to the dozen. She is feeding in that important looking document that Pippa has only just signed before our luncheon. I sneak up to her on my very high heels and touch her shoulder. She jumps about ten feet in the air and when she returns to earth stares red faced at her cheap oxblood Sloane shoes. "Don't worry, I knew all the time" I tell her in a friendly voice.   
"Never mind that" I continue "the driver we had today, is he .......?" I make signals with my eyebrow.
"Oh yes" she, in turn, describes a circle with her tongue peeking from between her lips, then makes a sucking motion, smiles and gives a little low whistle. Code meaning he is certainly worth further investigation on my part. I hug her excitedly. She loves to share, so do I. I have a new couple of friends. I do so love Charity work, it can be so rewarding.
Where is my host? I look for her and can't tell from the dropped blinds that obscure vision in her office whether she has managed in the interim, to make it all the waddled way back there to her office or not. When I try her door it yields easily, Pippa is obscured on her side of the desk by stacks of cardboard boxes. Pizza Hut has delivered and it is waiting for us. I only know she is there because she is chomping noisily behind the barricade.
I help myself to a quarter of Pepperoni meat feast from one of the nine boxes and bags and rejoin Pippa her side of the desk. She has given up her losing struggle of getting her huge nether regions into the leather chair. Instead she is sitting on the floor behind it .I spread a "Help The Colourblind Child" prospectus and donation form over her chair as my seat protector and lower myself in with yards to spare either side of my svelte hips.
I swivel the chair and face Pippa as we wordlessly devour all the feast. I rest my feet on her tummy to hide the sight of her open mouthed cramming and mastication from my view .
"Fuck you, you fucking no food Ivy " she mouths unintelligibly, her mouth full of rotating garlic bread and Hawaiian pizza.
With the business of the day over I spruce myself up with all the moist towelettes before Mixer can get at them, airkiss her my goodbyes (but not too closely)  - me bending supply from the chair to her whilst she is still marooned on her office carpet like a huge beached Great white.
We agree to meet later that evening at the Dorchester where I am requested to MC the proceedings.
I even get her to agree that her limo driver can be assigned to take me onward to my next destination. I leave her on the floor. It is beyond me to hoist her-even if I want to. I know from past experience that Mariella will eventually summon assistance for Pippa from the maintenance men that Help The Colourblind Child and are employed solely for this purpose.    
 
The journey home is eventful.
 
As I exit the HTCC's lift at the basement our chauffeur spots me. Rather than welcoming me or bringing the car forward to shorten my fifty yard journey, - he's off and he's running- away from me. Out of the car door he bolts like a bolting bolt out of a crossbow. As he looks back at me in blind panic, his eye's rolling in his head, he runs full pelt straight into one of the 40 inch wide concrete pillars that support the twenty three floors above us and knocks himself unconscious.
He slides to the ground and I pitter patter over eventually on my absurdly high heels to his rescue.
"Hayyelp, Hayyelp" I shout doing my best Penelope Pitstop voice. No one comes to my assistance.
As he returns to consciousness he is disoriented and somewhat surprised to find his trouser flies are open. It makes no sense to him at all that I am crouched over him with my hand around his manhood checking out the contents of his underpants. And she did not exaggerate, it's everything that Mariella hinted at.
He blinks exaggeratedly as if trying to clear his head of a bad dream. When the dream won't go away he turns away from me taking the flaccid ten inches of hornpipe from my grasp and faces the pillar, sitting with his arms over his knees just like a sulky child.
This is no way to behave, especially as I've come to his rescue. I feel rather miffed.
"You've got a nasty bump there" I venture, meaning his forehead "we'd best get that looked at, shouldn't we."
No answer
"Well, you can't sit there all day, you know, you're in the middle of the car park, someone might run you over"
Still no answer.
When I make a circuit of him, and walk around to the front visage I see that he is crying, weeping copiously. 
He looks up at me, accusingly "You don't know me, do you?" he says.
"Yes" I respond brightly and accurately " you were our driver today, have you lost your memory, is that it ?"
He rubs his eyes dry, a candle of grey snot hangs suspended from his nose
" Not just today........."  he says and waits. When he speaks I notice that his teeth are large white and perfect.
I hand him one of the Pizza Hut moist towelettes that I've used only once. He takes it. It's tiny in his huge  hand and against his gargantuan yellow head but it suffices for him to clean around his face and finally blow his nose which for a big man he does most daintily.
" I used to work for you" he says. Now, this comes as a bit of surprise to me and I spin my rolodex of bedtime acquaintances, bootie boys from the agencies and various one night stands. Nothing computes.
"As your chauffeur, Brookstein and partners-........."
Now I remember, I cast my mind back to a sunny day at the Ivy. I recall I was feeling particularly upbeat on that day although I cannot remember why.   
It's coming back to me. He's right, he was our driver that day, he took us to the Ivy and then me onto the VE Hospital. Yes, I remember it now.
"I remember -now" I smile.
"You sacked me, I couldn't get work."
He struggles to his feet and towers above me. The darkened car park darkened more for me by his shadow.
 
"That wasn't me, " I hastily explain, "Philippa, Philippa Mann does all the hiring and firing, you remember Philippa."
 
"Maybe not you, but when she told me, she said she'd been ordered to do it, she was told there were complaints about my behaviour that day and you were the lady who was in charge of that whole journey, weren't you?"
 
"You've got it all wrong. Look, lets get some things straight, right here right now," I take control.
 
 "First off, do your flies up, you unzipped yourself when you were unconscious"
 
He does my bidding and zips, his eyes never leaving my face.
 
"I was happy there, " He says, "I was there over ten years, didn't she know that?"
 
Siding with him I say "She's a hard bitch, but do you know what ? I own the company.
I'll phone them right now and get you compensated."
 
"You'd do that, for me" he asks.
 
I nod my head and his face lights up. He has a beautiful smile, a huge dick too. His whole body language changes and he looks as if a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders.He is majestic when he stands like this, tall and proud. I am so happy for him, he has a huge dick.
 
His mouth runs away with him. "Mrs Brookstein, all this time, I couldn't get a job, I couldn't get a reference, so I couldn't get a job.You don't know what this means to me.I couldn't feed my family, we got thrown out on the street with our furniture. My sister Mei Lei's been ill, coughing all the time with that Asiatic Virus and we couldn't get her the medicine or afford to take her to hospital.
I was happy there, can you make it that I can have my old job back?"
 
"Of course, anything"
 
He weeps tears of joy as I take my mobile phone out of my huge clutch bag. Todays Pineapple is a Sugarloaf by the way. I punch numbers and after a short time I make a "connected" face at him and ask for Philippa. I punch more numbers and get connected to the person that I really am phoning and listen intently to three and a half minutes of my personal psychic tarot reading.
 
I intersperse the paragraphs of intimate knowledge as if I'm talking, giving orders to a contrite PA which of course I am not.
 
"You had no right to do that" I bark at the recorded message.
 
He is beaming.
 
Then a full half minute later
 
"You don't take instructions from them, you take instructions from me, I own this business"
 
Another half minute
 
He is smiling fit to bust
 
"Yes, full pay and back pay to make up for while he's been out of our employ."
 
Another half minute
 
"And don't you ever do this again without checking with me first of all" I loudly tell Tarots-R-Us.
 
I click the phone shut with a loud snap.
 
"You start back on Monday, if you like"
 
The tears he weeps this time are of joy. 
 
"I like, I like" he weeps unashamedly, a grown man crying. He has a huge dick.
 
My three and a half minutes astrology from mystic forces beyond the stars have importantly told me.
 
v     Beware the number 9
v     A foreign power wishes me well
v     That I should keep my promises
 
Well, as Meatloaf once said, two out of three isn't bad.
 
"Come, now," I lead him by the hand back to the car but instead of letting him resume his post in the cab I pull him into the darkened interior booth with me. Before I sit down, I slide the glass partition and collect the "Evening Standard" that I just knew would be there,from the front bench seat. I spread it as my seat protector and stow my heavy clutch bag in the compartment under the long bench that runs the length of the passenger cab.
 
"No one knows we're here, just us two" I tell him. 
 
He looks very uncomfortable and I reach under his chauffeurs jacket, lower it from his broad muscular Chinese shoulders that smell of lemon and cinnamon. I toss the heavy jacket on to the far seat and lower myself onto the newspaper to sit intimately next to him. Taking his giant hand I pat the back of it to re-assure him. He pulls his hand away as if he's been stung or burnt.
 
This is not going well. I'll be damned if I relinquish the prize that Mariella's been enjoying.
 
It's been a long time since I danced.
 
Me, I have not lost my knack and as I go through the slow opening moves of the lap dance in the semi darkness, my back to him and my hips describing long lazy circles orbiting very near and then agonizingly far from him I feel his resolve weaken and his primitive urges come to the fore.
 
Bump and grind and grind and bump and grind and grind and bump and bump.
 
No, Dear Gentle Reader if you're going to do it too then stand behind me and copy me, not face to face mirroring me, or you'll never get it right.
 
You see, you were bumping when you should have been grinding. I bet you feel foolish.
 
Now start again, get that fixed far away look on your face, drop that left shoulder and bump and grind and grind and bump and grind and grind and bump and bump. There, that's much better
 
I need no music as I go through my well schooled paces. I tease him mercilessly near and far, near and ................ far    until he reaches for me as I pass almost out of range grasping my still slim waist from both sides and drawing me down upon him. Like a slippery eel I'm mercury slip sliding, pouring out and away from his fingers.
 
I choose my distance carefully, all the while the long lazy rhythm playing through my fine body, and turn to face him. My eyes are fixed on some far distant point, the pretty pout is fixed on my lips. All the while, the hips swaying, my groin grinding and the shoulders rocking. It's so good it's even turning me on.
 
Focussing, I check for effect.

His breathing is deep, in rhythm with my movements, his eyes half closed, en-tranced.
 
I'm a rhythmic, sensual, hypnotic cobra and without breaking the flow I move gradually closer and closer, in for the kill. I'm within arms length and totally in control. I reach behind me and unzip, shucking the sheer silky garment I step out of it and onto his lap in the darkened excitement.
 
I push his chest and he complies like a baby allowing me to pivot him over and around the evening standard and I lay him down along the length of the soft leather bench seating with inches to spare at his head and at his feet.
 
Still gyrating I lift my right leg over the bench seat and kneel, straddling his face and with smaller circles I continue to gyrate still keeping the same thrall.
 
Just when It seems I am inevitably due to make contact with his face I push gently away and gracefully repeat the exercise this time hovering just above the huge stretched tightness of his trouser region. He moans involuntarily.
 
Dance over. Game over. Kneeling by the side of the bench seat I slowly, langorously unzip and retrieve his long dry body-warm babys arm of a member and as I guide my reward towards my pout it softens and wilts. Uselessly.
 
" I can't, Mrs Brookstein, I can't" He awkwardly wheels himself into a sitting up position, I join him and we sit side by side as if strangers on the same bus ride seat.
 
"What is it?" I ask.
 
Without needing to look I feel him shrug embarrased and inarticulate beside me.
 
I offer him an out, in fact several outs.
 
"You have too much respect for me. You see me as unattainable, too much to hope for"
 
He nods. Good. I'm on the right lines.
 
"Well, first of all, when we're like this I'm Diana, not Mrs Brookstein, you understand"
 
Still looking ahead, he nods agreement.
 
"Is that better"
 
Silence, then he shakes his head.
 
Getting no further enlightenment from him, my brain goes into Agony Aunt mode.
 
"You've difficulty with this type of activity in this vehicle, after all, it is your place of work, you're not accustomed to being in the back. You feel you belong, your rightful place is at the front, drivers side."
 
He nods vigorously.
 
"Also, you've had a nasty shock, some emotional turbulence, all those bad memories about your family. It's only natural that you weren't at your best. Is that it?"
 
"Yes, Mrs Brookstein, ........Diana ......that's it" He murmurs, puzzled and in awe that I understand him better than even he understands himself.
 
I rotate my body on the seat so that I am side on in the darkness looking into his young troubled face. He stares stolidly ahead.
 
" A change of scene will do us both good" I tell him, "You get in the front and let's go somewhere where we can be more relaxed"
 
I give him my home address and he confirms that he knows how to get there.
 
Enlivened, he gathers his jacket and still unzipped hurries out of the sedan and bounds into the front seat. He sits himself heavily on the driver's side of the walnut wood partition and the engine springs into life We are reversed into the main thoroughfare of the car park and then out through barriers bumps and ramps up from the subterranean depths into the bright daylight of West End Civilisation.
 
He's as eager as me, it seems, to reach my bijou apartment and I scoot on my evening standard tray over the glossy seat to the bulkhead.
 
Reaching up I slide the glass partition open and catch his glance in the rear view mirror.
I proceed to catalogue just some of the delights that are in store for him once we reach my  Chelsea residence. Well, it's certainly got me hot and sticky and judging by the difficulty that he's having negotiating the broad thoroughfares of the embankment my words are also having considerable effect. Our long sleek limousine is comically forcing crossing pedestrians back on to the safe pavements, whilst cyclists, despatch riders, buses and motorists find themselves in avenues they hadn't chosen. I regain my dress. My composure was never lost. 
 
In no time at all, we're here, the limousine parked at a jaunty carefree angle along the length of my swish apartment block and I'm reaching into my bag to Magnocard my way through the Concierges hallways.
 
Todays Concierge, Alphonse, who is as gay as a summers day, let's me know he approves my choice of companion, his eyes widening. As my prize and I make our way to the lift I look over my shoulder to see Alphonse, his eyes fixed on the Driver's rear, gathering up some towels from under his concierge desk and run jumping into the lift as the doors close.
 
He lisps,"Phew, just made it" the momentum of his run and jump knocking my Driver into the far corner of the lift cubicle. Alphonse gamely follows mouthing his apologies. "Oh, I am sorry, Are you OK? I'm so silly me, daft as a hairbrush" he simpers.
 
The "1" is illuminated as we reach the first floor.
 
Although there is plenty of room in the lift (Maximum load 12 persons or Roseanne Barr) he has cornered my confused companion and under the cover of his towels his hands are probing.
 
Reaching over Alphonses head I press the "2" button and the lift stops abruptly sprawling the excited Alphonse and his busy towels.
 
With strength I didn't know that I possessed, I pick Alphonse up bodily and throw him out through the opening lift doors.
 
We continue our ascent uneventfully to 7.
 
Magnocarding my way through, we arrive at my London home. I point out the CCTV over the stairwell entry door. "Not everyone thinks of that" I say proudly before magnocarding us through my own front door.
 
Better than a penthouse is a wing. How do you get to own a wing? you ask, Dear Gentle Reader.
 
You buy one flat, then you buy up your neighbours place and the next one etcetera and just keep adding entrances as you burrow your way to own the freehold by proxy of the whole entire building, (Landlords Act 2003, Burrows v Redgrave 2001)
 
Then you back finance the whole enterprise by charging your neighbours exorbitant leasehold premiums which ensure they either move out, and get replaced or stay if they can afford it. That way you get top quality ( moneyed) people all around you. Brings up the whole profile of the neighbourhoood, no riff raff.
 
Soon here we are in my eleven homes knocked into one. Every room skilfully catacombed and furnished like a palace to be quadruple it's original size.
 
Would you like tea with me in the second drawing room, it's all double high ceiling chandeliered  splendour, Vitto'ce Hangings and Louis Fourteenth furniture artfully arranged on antique parisienne rugs. Well tough, we can't now because as you well know I have some unfinished business to attend to. With my sex quest man in tow we wend our way through the rooms and corridors. Checking in on the kitchen on Spanish Rosa, today she's "dressed" in Janet Reger lingerie as she busies herself around my pots and pans on my Crequotte Aga.     
There are dark circles of sweat under her arms on the cream laced basque. Her apes nipples show through the circular fetish bra cut-outs. Her crutchless knickers look as if they are fur trimmed, her body hair massing around and through the matching briefs. Despite the fact she is completely insane she cooks like an angel would.
 
We next visit the placid faded shell of Mark Reynolds, as he sits unaware of the two ringing telephones and the long stream of incoming fax paper around his ankles in the office I have installed for him,in one of the nine spare bedrooms. The computer in front of him is not even switched on. The monitor says it is like Mark. No signal.
 
"Mark, I'm just off to have sex with one of our drivers" I tell him, loudly,chirpily.
 
No response.
 
For todays seduction I've chosen a darkened four poster bedded chamber simple in it's maroon silk sheeted splendour. A little light baroque chamber music tinkles pleasantly at my switch of the remote control, I find candles and light them arranging them on shelves and low surfaces. I scatter sex toys, lubricants, muscular suppositories and surprises around the high mattress.
 
My driver and I strip and shower in the ensuite bathroom which is almost as big as the chamber itself .In the enclosure the six poweful jets hit us both from all sides refreshing us with their frothy spume.
 
We wrap each other in oversized white Persian cotton towels and make our way back into the nest.
 
Teasingly I back my quarry until I can see his thighs  are almost against  the mattress and then I force him with gusto on his back on to the huge bed and throw myself bodily on top of him. For a full twenty two minutes I tear into him, biting, gnawing sucking and scratching, Kissing and tugging and whispering and breathing, teasing and probing and splaying and delving, Lubing and rolling and holding and enveloping.
 
And nothing.
 
"What the fuck's going on?" I'm angry.
 
"Mister, you got some explaining to do. What is it ?, are you a faggot? did you like what Alphy was doing to you?" I berate him.
 
 Again, it's the sullen treatment.
 
Then the penny drops. It's Mariella, that's what it is, he's chosen her callow nervous frivolity when he could have had fun with me.
 
"So, it's the blonde bimbo, then. That's why you can't perform"
 
He nods his assent. First bit of life I've got out of him in this room so that's progress in a way.
"She'll never know" I tell him, reassuringly, "it'll be just between you and me"
I re-start my initiative but he is still unresponsive. I resolve to be patient.
"I can show you delights that she will never know as long as she lives"
 
We get words from him "It's not that"
 
"OK, what is it then"
 
After a while he talks
 
"Mariella - she's kind"
 
"What, like I'm not kind! I am kind. I don't do this sort of thing with everybody, you know"
 
He's fencing now. Trying to be diplomatic.
 
"Look, I'm flattered, but I just can't," then whispers, almost as if to himself,  " I won't"
 
Last chance salon.
 
"You and me " I tell him, "We're not so different, I was brought up as an outcast, hated not like you for Pearl Harbour and the color of my skin, but because of the company I kept and the way I chose to live my life."
 
I check for response but he is stolid, impassive.
 
I continue, "I've been abused, bought and sold, sodomized, fellashisized, prostitued, solicited, inuptiated and complegulated. You understand me?"
 
He gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. No.
 
"Look around you" I spread my naked arms wide. "I haven't always had this"
 
Getting into my flow now
 
"We're the same, you and I, different continent's I grant you, but we've both had to claw our way up from the gutter. I wasn't even a contender,  I had nothing. My real parents didn't want me after I was sent home from boarding school for crashing the Principal's stupid car twice, and after that  they even blamed me for all the petty thieving that was going on in our village, and then for the huge village fire. And after they caught me strangling my sister, I just had to run away and live with gypsies. As a child, an innocent of just fourteen I danced, danced for money and worse. I did things, things that I still don't even know the name for. So don't you get on your high horse and decide that you're better than me. We both know you're not"
 
Better now. I've got it all out of my system.
 
"And then" pleasantly " I married a billionaire and the rest is history."
 
"What I'm saying to you is that you can enjoy these things, "again spreading my arms wide  seductively advertising the goodies on offer " if you care to, that is"
 
As I've talked, he's been collecting up all the white towels around him on the bed and balled them up against his midriff like a barricade. A nasty gash on his shoulder drips blood.
 
After a while, he looks me straight in the eye and says "This isn't working for me, can I go?"
 
"No, not yet," I respond "I've got one more task for you, something I just know you'll do well"
 
"About the job thing" he asks " that's still OK isn'it? I still get my old job back Monday, don't I? " 
 
 "Of course" I confirm "I'm not one to hold a grudge."
 
He is visibly relieved.
 
"Get straightened up and dressed," I pick up my watch and earrings from the bathroom, collect my huge clutch bag "You've a Charity fling to take me to in thirty minutes."
 
Naked, leaving the opulence of the room I make my way down neutral painted corridors only relieved by my celebrated works of art to my sedate bedchamber where I can be alone.
 
 
 
Alone, in my room. I throw myself face down on the bed and cry wordlessly. Visions of cruel rejection, recent and in the past suffuse me. Why does this always happen to me? I beat at the unknowing counterpane and mattress with my clenched fists until I have no strength to continue.
 
Eventually, the pain and the anger subsides.
 
I sit up again, forty minutes have passed.
 
Thinking fast, I reach for the bedside telephone and dial Mixer' mobile number.
 
Her answerphone message drones on for the requisite eighty eight (yes, -  time it ) seconds"You're through to dee da dee da The number you have dialled is not available at the moment, etc etc dee da deee da dee da - concluding, "if you want to re -record your message, please press the hash key.
 
Come on, are we all stupid, why do we all pay airtime minutes to listen to that recorded message-why don't they just give us a RECORD NOW beep like the engaged signal?  
 

Big business ripping us all off.

 
Your airtime seconds, my airtime seconds, everyones airtimes seconds, worldwide, we're talking mega currency millions that we're all being ripped off for.
 
When I get elected World President of World Affairs-but I digress.
 
"Pippa, you old bastard walrus, cover for me until I can get there" I tell the answerphone.
 
That should do the trick.
 
Seventy five minutes later, I am repainted, refreshed and redressed exquisitely. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep my hungry hands off of myself ha hah.
 
Rushing down the hallways the maroon bedchamber is empty. The towels and the sex toys lie discarded in disarray.
 
I go to enquire of Rosa where the "can't raise a hard-on" Driver has gone and as soon as I enter the kitchen I take in the cosy scene. He is sat smiling happily at my kitchen table. Before him is a huge steaming wokful of sweet n sour pork, egg fried rice and crispy duck. He has a stack  of floury pancakes to mop up the sauce. Rosa is at the stove laughing happily as if they're old old friends. The Evening Standard crumpled as if it's been sat on is spread on the table. The easy crossword is half completed. They've been having fun.
 
We're late, it's your fault " I tell him" If I hadn't had to spend so long looking for you" I end archly.
I regain the newspaper for it's rightful duty, my seat protection.
 
"You haven't got time for that. Put your jacket on and lets get to the car." I command.
 
When we get to the limousine we jump in, me into luxury, him into the drivers booth and we pull away about two inches with a loud grind. There is nothing like a Queen rebuffed. Alphonse, in his retaliation has called in the clampers and as we step out the car on the far side we see the yellow metal Denver bracelet around the front wheel.
 
"Do something" I tell him.
 
My rage carries me into the foyer and I have hit the door so hard I've activated the Fire Emergency system and the door opens without my Magnocard.
I shout above the noise of the Fire Alarm and the hissing of the active sprinkler systems at the Concierges desk.
 
"Where's that fuckshit Alphonse?"
 
I learn that Alphonse has completed his shift and gone off duty.
 
I'm getting wet and then in a moment of clarity I realise it's not my car, not my problem.
 
I stride out of the mayhem amid the mass of my exiting neighbours and hail a cab.
 
The cabbie wants to know why I am standing for the journey. My mood is black.
 
We arrive at the Dorchester and the worried Charity Minders whisk me through from reception to the Rothschild Ballroom.  
 
"You should have been here three hours ago" Bill Clinton, guest of Honour, tells me backstage.
 
"Why maaaaaaaan, what happened?" I chortle, repeating that funny John Lennon joke.
 
"You'll just have to read it all off of the Idiot cards."
 
I glower
 
" The cue cards, I meant" Trevor Nunn, the organiser gulps.
 
"That's better" I warn him.
 
I'm spun through make up, (totally unnecessary) brought up to speed with the events so far; The Auction, The Sponsored Events, The Celebrities, Who's wearing What, The Gossip,The Guest Lists, The Menu I've missed, even something as an afterthought a bit about the Charity itself. Microphones are pinned to me, cards are thrust into my hands and soundsight boxes taped to my back. My heavy clutch bag is entrusted to an attendant.
 
"OK, she's ready" Trevor declares. Some relief in his voice.
 
I'm pushed through the tall heavy purple curtains and a white haze of flashbulbs and applause greets me.
 
Toupee'd bumbler Terrence Wogman has been making time for me and is in mid joke centre stage at the microphone as I march up and take the mike from his hand. He resists and we play wrestle with it, fixed showbiz expressions on our faces. With my back to camera I playfully knee him hard in his shrivelled old sweetbreads. He hobbles off stage, doubled up, to polite applause.
 
Turning back to the assembly I survey the scene. Twenty odd tables each seating twelve of Britains best and finest await my brilliance. Delay Touchem and Run or who-ever is their tax lawyer has insisted they be here tonight.
 
As I start to speak I see the huge figure of Pippa Blatter rush in from the back of the throng and try to find her seat. She has only now just arrived.  A KentuckyFried Chicken feed six  family bucket is in her arms.
 
Welcoming Bill Clinton ( a man too mean to pay for his staff's dry cleaning bills) and then the lesser celebrities. The next card -  I'm acknowledging the TV stations who are picking this up live.
My next card tells me the Highlights of the Evening, the Auction, The Nature of the sponsored events. The next cards, the "hook-ups"; the events in other cities around the world mirroring this fundraiser. Then as a huge screen unrolls behind me I get to the card we've all been waiting for.

How much have we raised? " £650 poundser pounds, ladies and gentlemen, £650 poundser pounds" I shout enthusiastically.

 

On the screen behind me £650 flashes up randomly and repeatedly, in all different places, colours, sizes and fonts, on the white surface.

 

The audience are applauding as loudly as if I'd said £650 thousand pounds. I'm bouncing up and down excitedly on my Prada high heel slingbacks.

 
"£650 poundser pounds," I bounce and shout, they're all clapping and whooping. I keep saying it. Everyone's going wild.
 

After that, it's plain sailing and I make some trite comments at the mike about the uninteresting dismal charity that's brought us all together this night and then segue/introduce a short video of Bill Clinton playing hop-scotch in a roped off Vietnamese schoolyard, The video's voiceover tells us that this quadrant has been cleared recently of landmines using the charity money we've sent them. A horde of smiling buck teethed, under-nourished native youngsters squint on cheerily hoping for destruction. Our collective hopes, the childrens' and ours are dashed as the old philanderer emerges unscathed through the ropes beaming happily.

The video ends with a still frame of the self confessed "non inhaling" dope smoker and the videotape then goes into spontaneous whoops of it's own recorded applause, cheering and clapping.

 

To this canned aggrandisement Clinton emerges on to centre stage and I hand him the mike, flipping the on button to the off position as I hand over. A polite but not over enthusiastic bout of real clapping greets him from the live audience as he stands sweating in his cheap Tuxedo suit beneath his own image on the screen.

 

The canned tribute applause continues, as Bill mouths silently, "My Lords, Noble Dignitaries, Ladies and Gentlemen". A stage hand dashes on, unobtrusively flips the switch and reconnects the speaker with the amplifiers. Bill drones on, people ignore him, leave the table, start milling about in their charity circuit re-aquaintment.  

 
As I work the crowd offstage afterwards gladhanding this one, airkissing that one, acknowledging their homage, I say out of the side of my mouth to Pippa. "Where the fuck were you"
"I fell asleep on my office floor." She chortles back. "It was only the beep of your message that roused me".
 
Afterwards I'm exhausted, Charity work, necessary as it is, can be so demanding, so draining.
 
Dear Gentle Reader. You're frowning. Why is that?
 
You say you're puzzled, a little puzzled about the low proceeds. Well, don't be. Everybody forgets that charities have to pay their bills just like everybody else. Bill Clinton doesn't come cheaply, hah hah.
 
Seriously though, the expenses involved with an event like this high profile jundit are staggeringly huge. Plus which charitable donors are fickle with their charity spend. You are judged by your last event. If it's not a success* then donations go elsewhere.
 
An army of consultants, spin doctors, mortgage consultants, multi media advertisers, image consultants, chartered surveyors, pre publicity, media liaison, public relations, fashion and interior designers,investment consultants, post publicity, press agents, entertainment maestros, proofreaders etc, have to be interviewed, choreographed before, during  and after the event is organised for it to be a success. The whole exercise is a huge gravy train, sorry, I mean, international project. The army of paid organisers typically outnumber the guests somewhere between eighteen and twenty one - to- one, if it's to be a success at all. Todays gathering has made a small trough of profit, all that we in the hard working world of charity can hope for. Of coures it was a large trough originally for all of us little piggies to get our snouts into. Sorry, delete that last sentence.
 
So the next time you give money to charity, give more. That way, the charity can get to have some.
 

I'm woken at 10.15 a.m. by the strident bell of my bedside telephone.

It's Philippa phoning from my office. She's in some quandary, I surmise.
 
"Hold on , hold on" I say.
 
With effort, I force myself into a pretty sitting pose and study my fingernails. Monday, it's Monday.
 
Philippa has a problem on her hands. Downstairs Security have thrown out Ho Chi Chang from the building three times, he keeps coming back, she tells me.
 
"Who- Who's Ho Chi Minge?"
 
"Chang - exactly," replies Philippa " he was one of our Chauffeur Drivers, you told me to sack him ages ago"
 
"So why's he back?" I yawn, wondering why I'm even being bothered about this trifling rubbish.
 
"Because" Philippa responds" He maintains you re-instated him. He's adamant you spoke to me about it "
 
"Complete and utter bilge"
 
"OK, that's what I thought, I'll get the police to get rid of him, once and for all. Sorry to have woken you."
 
"No problem, Philippa, I ‘ve been awake for ages."
 
As she makes her goodbyes and disconnects I'm immediately telephoning Mixer on her mobile. This time she answers straight away. From the sound of her relaxed chomping she's on her second or third breakfast. After we schmooze our hello's I put a cry in my voice and I tell her about the vipers that she has in her Charity nest. Her limousine driver said that she could stick her job where it would do her the most good I tell her, and I add, he called you a big tub of lard, and he's interviewing this very morning with a rival charity to you in a similar capacity as a Driver for more pay. "Plus," and at this, I break down completely, "he tried to molest me" I wail unhappily.
 
"Diana, this is terrible, so that's why we couldn't get a reference for him " she pieces together the puzzle.
 
"I'll get Mariella to finish him" Pippa volunteers.
 
"No, not Mariella, she's in on this too. Remember she forced you to take him on out of the kindness of your heart in the first place."
"She's engineered this whole situation, the two of them are planning to unmask your charity as a fraud. They've been in touch with .... The tabloid papers"
 
 
Her sharp intake of breath and whatever she was eating incapacitates her momentarily.
Spluttering she says" This is terrible, what am I to do?"
 
"They've both gotta go, you've gotta go do it Pippa, you know it makes sense. No going back"
 
" I suppose so"
 
"You have to do it, Pippa. Mariella has all the dirt on you, your expense account, your rewards and retainers from the contractors. If people knew about that, they might get the wrong impresion, think you were greedy" I say, playing the ace up my sleeve.
 
"Oh, my"
 
I drop the phone on to my cradle and return blissfully innocent to my sleep. 
 
* For a charity event to be successful it doesn't have to make money. TV Audience Figures, Nielsens, are much more important.