Still waiting for that classy invite
After writing a column for the past six months something extraordinary has happened. A reader sent me an email! But it is not at all what I was expecting. I have been secretly hoping for an invitation to work for a production company...
After writing a column for the past six months something extraordinary has happened. A reader sent me an email! But it is not at all what I was expecting.
I have been secretly hoping for an invitation to work for a production company; an invitation to a fashionable globally significant event; maybe even a request to model a new haute couture range; or even a publishing deal, but no, what I get is a barrage of comment from someone recommending that I read an article in the FT about bilateral Sino African relations.
These comments undermine the entire premise of what it is to be a Jewish Princess. Firstly this "tongue in cheek" business? Us princesses are not tongue in cheek; we are through and through superficial and shallow. Tongue in cheek is altogether too sophisticated a notion.
Admittedly, I do like the FT.
I can only have the most profound respect for any newspaper that is pink. Nevertheless, in my humble opinion, the only seriously informative piece of writing to be found there is its iconic "How to Spend It" monthly mag. It's where I draw a lot of my inspiration - the cashmere jersey dress and vintage Channel pumps I am wearing today being a case in point.
So what about Chinese immigration to Africa? Great idea, the place is sadly short of spring rolls and egg fried rice. We should not underestimate these civilising influences. But the nice thing is that the Chinese are investing in the place - not doling out large amounts of money that disappears along the way. I suppose the wives of African Heads of State also read "How to spend it".
- 1 Queen’s Platinum Jubilee: Street parties and road closures in Haringey
- 2 Five jailed after 'cold blooded' murder of Enfield father
- 3 Revealed: Your favourite fish and chip shop in north London
- 4 Crouch End pub ransacked and charity money stolen
- 5 Two more charged in connection with Olsi Kuka killing in Barnet
- 6 Man jailed for membership of banned neo-Nazi group National Action
- 7 Royal beacon in Golders Hill shines light for Queen
- 8 Belsize Park phone box transformed into art gallery by prep school pupils
- 9 Gold and silver for a Platinum Jubilee party
- 10 Home of the week: Hampstead flat with garden for £1.25m
I must confess that other matters have been dominating my world: a place to stay, for example. I have launched myself upon the property market, and what a mess that is.
This is not the first time I have needed to leave home. In my first year at university I was put in an all-girl hall of residence full of estranged girls, mostly from abroad. Having gone to a mixed school I accepted the need 'to do time' in an all-girl institute and duly set about developing an eating disorder so I could fit in.
My second year was in Beijing. There I lived in a foreigner's dormitory. Foreigners were only allowed to live in designated areas in the city at that time.
I befriended lots of Koreans (southern of course) and Russians and a handful of Americans. I returned the following year ok in both Russian and Korean but still needing to get my head around Chinese. When I got back to the UK I rented a house on the wrong side of Leeds with a bunch of new best friends.
We were burgled thrice. On all occasions they forced open my ground floor window and turned my room upside down before progressing upstairs to steal large quantities of my housemates' stuff, ignoring my possessions entirely.
The robbers didn't appreciate my silk McQueen dress or new Lanvin shoes. It really set me back. Where am I going wrong if the dregs of society's girlfriends will not touch my clothes!
Anyway, we have been spending an unreasonable amount of time with estate agents who, on first appearance look remarkably like ordinary people but turn out to be something else entirely.
After two exhaustive weeks of searching, a dumb little creature turns on me, barking about me having taste that requires at the very least £4,000 in rent a month but only having a budget of £350.
Interesting point. But what options do I have while doing an unpaid internship at the BBC? I might be broke and career-less but that does not mean I have to compromise my value system and betray my carefully spoilt upbringing. So I have asked my parents to move out.