Am I pleased to be home? Darn tootin' I am. I will be giving a full and fearless account in the days to come, but may I just say I never want to hear the name of Peter de Savary ever again. He is all over the Caribbean like some vile poultice. He is the embodiment of everything you hope you won't find there, but do. The uniform of Ralph Lauren Polo, khaki shorts, leathery old legs and Hoyo de Monterrey is enough to make an Englishwoman in her prime break down and cry, I tell you. And no more Southern Baptists, purr-lease! I spent some terrible time with a Mr and Mrs Rongings of Jackson, Mississippi and they showed me a photograph of their minister, preaching a doctrine of moral indignation and censorship, and he stands behind a great, thick bulletproof Plexigas sheet on all public occasions. Wow! There's faith in action, as I live and drink.
Drink. There's another thing. I am cutting down bigstyle. Numb addressed me one evening as Countess Drunkula (cruel). I have kicked him into touch, you'll be glad to know. What do I need with a convicted junk bond trader, anyway? I am currently recruiting a replacement. Previous applicants need not re-apply.