Saturday 4 July 2009

Per Favore Smetti di Parlare ad Alta Voce in Questa Lingua Irritante

Just brief tidings this evening, I am afraid, for I am Rimini-bound tomorrow and must be rested and prepared for my Itie public.  During my absence, the household will be catered for by Mrs Rumteigh, the sumptuous old drudge, and her lackadaisical husband, who will, no doubt, allow my sweet peas to run to seed, and the dogs to create a huge pile of ordure which will await my return.  Why do I always land in the shit, and sometimes quite literally?  It is beyond reason.

Mrs R pronounces Rimini as Rih-meany.  This is a good example of her lack of rigour, and also her turncoat ways, for she writhes into conniptions should anyone dare to produce her surname as "Rum-tay", for example.  She also stutters over Vuitton, L. Annaeus Seneca and Cyclophosphamide, but I extend the hand of forgiveness, for she is a woman of mean intelligence and even meaner disposition.  Noblesse oblige.  For myself, I will admit to a weakness here, for I have never been able to learn Italian.  I know many of you will swoon at this news, having admired and loathed my facility with languages over the years.  I don't know how to explain it.  There is not much I can't get my tongue around, as  some will be happy to attest, but there is something about the singsong quality of that parlance that escapes me.  I suppose it might also explain my avoidance of Max Bygraves.  Who knows?  Rest assured, I have packed a little phrase book, so that I might dredge up such useful rejoinders as Veramente, signor poliziotto, la sua faccia era gia cosi quando l'ho incontrato, or the ever-popular Cazzo!  But I will rely mainly on the proven tack of speaking slowly and loudly and refusing to use public lavatories.  This has stood me in good stead in many places, including Algiers and County Monaghan.

I will take the Alitalia flight tomorrow, late afternoon, from Heathrow, which will be as beastly as ever, and arrive at Le Meridien Rimini in time for an oily evening repast.  This is not a holiday; I cannot emphasise this strongly enough.  This is a promotional freebie, which means work; yes, hard work, and plenty of it.  I am there at the behest of a gnarled old magazine editor who wants the skinny on the newly refurb'd Ekstasis Spa, and I suppose I will be obliged to submit to all manner of strange and unnatural treatments, including high colonics and flagellations.  What an appalling prospect for an Englishwoman in her prime.  Anyhoo, keep an eye on your least favourite fashion rags in the coming months to see me in my bright yellow
Agua Bendita, being worked over by a twig-yielder in the old fashioned way.  I hope.

My mailbox is oft-times crammed with yelps of despair from hopeless women: what should I pack for my hols?  they cry, in an irritating way.  And, Mrs Pouncer, what is a capsule wardrobe?  I can do naught but sneer at such faiblesse.  You should know instinctively what to pack, and I shouldn't have to spell it out.  And to the second query, I say capsule, schmapsule!  There is no such thing!  Who are these harpies (Hadley Freeman and Laura Craik) who think two skirts, a dress and a seersucker sunbonnet should be enough for three weeks on Cerf Island?  It would hardly be enough for a weekend at Port Seton, and I should know.  My counsel to you is as follows: toiletries - none. Buy what you need when you get there.  Ditto sunscreens and parfums.  A good book - I would go for something like the British National Formulary, but anything published by the Royal Pharmaceutical Society is good.  A biro, a jar of Marmite and a plug adaptor.  Some ludicrous underwear.  Some painful shoes.  A Leg Avenue sequined bikini. A Prada organza tunic.  A Butler and Wilson tiara.  A tub of Agent Provocateur's Creme d'Amour.  A Zac Posen minidress (yellow), some Betsey Johnson bangles, a bottle of Estee Lauder's Pure Colour Nail Lacquer in Fuschia, a Russell and Bromley Hobo bag.  I do hope this helps.  Possibly some (K. Musgrove) would also pop in a Pacamac, but that's Cleveleys for you.

Arrivederci.  Che cosa facevano i tuoi nonni durante guerra!

33 comments:

  1. My God Clarissa you have it exact, exactement!
    The sing song accents of the northern Adriatic do take on a whining nasal quality after a while. Red wine helps deaden the assault. Do try the kelp wraps at the Mirrabel Atlantico.

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  2. Betsey Johnson is TOTALLY and NOTORIOUSLY for sluts. I know that you knew this, Mrs P, but maybe some of your readers didn't.

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  3. It's years since I last popped in a Pacamac. You've aroused fond memories of a wet evening in Coventry. Thank you Clarissa.

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  4. I await some Rimini-Rock. (spearmint flavour por favor).

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  5. Rimini ... how 1960s darling! Do they still have those funny little chairs? Please don't wear the fuchsia nail varnish with the yellow dress.

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  6. What not even Latin - with your father and all?
    So many questions as ever. What in tarnation has Max to do with anything? Is there a low colonics? Does Estee sill do that malodorous 'Youth Dew'
    I have to disagree with Daphne - tho'it grieves me - yellow and fuchsia could be great in the Italian sun with your colouring.
    Have a good trip.

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  7. Glad you hear that you remove your ear wax with a biro, Mrs P. Much better than those awful cotton swabs which just push the wax in further.

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  8. Maroon, how thrilling that you are in touch with your feminine side, at long last. Increasingly in my milieu, the name "Gay" is becoming acceptable for baby boys. It is a very positive sign of the times, and Gay Byrne need no longer feel alone. You and Inky are trailblazers, to be sure. He recommends the pork broth immersion available at the Yunessan Spa, Hakone. It must be goy heaven there.

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  9. And Inky, you protest too much, as per. Don't even bother to pretend you don't like my predilection in this regard. My most successful frock ever was a Betsey Johnson Little Darlin' Tiered Corset dress. And her zipper-side bubble mesh boypants never disappoint. Particularly when the mechanism sticks a bit. It's a nice noise.

    Kevin, where are you hiding Scarlet, then? This sort of grimy entendre is a collaborative work; don't gainsay me. No wonder you were sent to Coventry.

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  10. Mapstew, a big bag of Menta Fredda shall be yours, assuming your teeth are up to the job. I don't want to be sued for expensive root canal work. We live in recessionary times.

    Pat, you becram your comments with questions of all kidney which, admittedly, makes a refreshing change from entendres both double and single (S. Blue passim). Youth Dew - yes; M. Bygraves - singalong hatred; all colonics are low when you think about it; Italian - it is something about the accent that worries me; I always think it might degenerate into Chico Marx; fuchsia and yellow - yes, I will stop traffic. I always do.

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  11. Mr Bananas! Amusant. Tres. However, my correspondents will agree when I say: the humble Biro is one of the most expensive commodities available on mainland Europe. No-one knows why; truly, it is a mystery without rational explanation. The prices inflate once you reach the Sangatte environs and continue to increase exponentially, creating furious bidding wars once you reach the Adriatic. Only a 24 mg shot of Humatrope costs more.

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  12. Daphne, this is my first trip to Rimini, so the little chairs mean nothing to me. Maroon was there in the '60s, but I imagine seating arrangements were the last thing on his mind. You are very cruel about my daring use of colour. You can't have forgotten how I caused a stir in Gstaad last Feb. in my chartreuse ensemble with Sambuca accessories and Creme de Menthe Broken Hearts? I hope you are not jealous? It is never too late to learn: I see you head to toe in Tara Jarman with several Marco Bicego confetti strands. You're welcome.

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  13. I am entreed out.
    What's all this about you going rimming in Coventry? May I suggest a coating of Raisin Hell [Benefit cosmetics] instead of a Pacamac?
    Sx
    I've got a bus to catch, C'ya there.
    Ciao, babeee...

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  14. Not black balled, Pouncer. You just always seem to be on blooming holidays. Did the recession not penetrate your golden gate?

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  15. Ah of course.
    One thicko - moi - shows off the others more lovely than them which hath no foil to set 'em off. Accordimng to Will - or words to that effect.

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  16. Aha, Mrs P, I have found you out! Whilst reading the Sunday Times today I had a BOF (Blinding Flash of the Obvious). You must write under the pseudonym of "Mrs Mills" in the Style section. Your damn good sense and sound advice give you away

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  17. I shall your style advice in the corridors of Whitehall. Makes a lovely change from all the M and S navy blue. You are an icon for troubled times.

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  18. Just a couple of words, Mrs P. As someone who has an Italian car, Italian motorbike and a cellar containing the odd case or several of Italian gallo nero della casa, I think you will find that Italy is a wonderful country woefully wasted on Italians. The language is, in fact, extremely simple and consists of any old French or Spanish phrase sung in a nasal stacatto using a random major scale. However, don't be put off by this as all real communication takes place solely through the waving of hands wildly in the air - even if the communicators are, in fact, using a phone and have no line of sight vision. You will soon come to realise why the Roman Empire is no more - but they do make a damn good pizza

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  19. I always pack a sarong: not just because I'm trans-curious but because it does for pyjamas, towel, beach blanket, headscarf and a rather gyspiesque boob-tube should the wife feel in such a mood. You heard it here first.

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  20. How tedious that your travels must be interrupted by the odious rigours of commerce. I can only hope your editor appreciates the intense sacrifice you put yourself to.

    Go on holiday the minute you return.

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  21. Dear friends, I arrived safely and have been hard at it ever since. I am up betimes this morning, as I have been snapped up by the brother of Arrigo Sacchi and I have an assignation on the Tiberius Bridge at 11.00 am. Before that, I am due to be covered in kaolin and hosed down by a young man in Spandex. Needs must.

    Scarlet, you and Kevin have put something vile into the ether, as per, and as a result we have been tormented by heavy rain-showers since arrival, not to mention suffocating humidity. I hope you are pleased with yourselves.


    I am glad you think I am holidaying, Emerson, you aunt. The pen is mightier than the sword, and I haven't had it out of my hand since I touched down.

    Pat, I fear you are guilty of speed-reading, and thereby risk missing all sorts of gorgeous nuance in these daring pensees. Do slow down.

    Dear Mr Jekand, you are wrong, and for several reasons; not least amongst these is the fact that I would shy away from being known as Mrs Mills. Some of us (K. Musgrove) have a Pavlovian response to that name, and envisage the back room of the Three Cocks and and an old woman playing Roll Out The Barrel.

    Madame De, navy blue is appropriate for the corridors of power, as you suggest, and you can simply carry colour in your soul. Which I am sure you do. Yes, I am an icon; ask anyone who knows me.

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  22. re: "the back room of the Three Cocks and an old woman playing Roll Out The Barrel"

    You may mock, Mrs P, but it was a warm home and she was a good mother to all 8 of us.

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  23. Mr Jekand, I am always doing an Atkins thing, so will never eat pizza. However, last night I broke two cardinal rules: I had gnochetti neri in salsa calamari, which is non-kosher carbs in anyone's language.

    Gadjo, you are the man for whom capsule wardrobes were invented! Can you also make a huge hat from your sarong? A cummerbund? a kite? And can you play amusing parachute-type games with it to amuse the local children (and get yourself a questionable reputation)?

    Yes, Kev. Also, If Loving You is Sarong I don't Want to be Right, With a Sarong in my Heart, September Sarong (autumn breaks only), etc etc.

    You said it, Chris. How I envy you idlers in the grey chill of an English summer! Even lunching here is a chore, believe me, as I am obliged to sit for over two hours, while emaciated retainers dance attendance. It is a hard, hard life, but I shall have my reward.

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  24. Mr Jekand, I am sorry to say that, in any contest, Winifred Attwell would've won hands down, and she very often did.

    And now, arrivederci, for I have work to do!

    Laters CLdeMP

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  25. Mrs P , at the mention of Rimini you bring back a terrible altrecation with a coach load of line dancers from Basildon .

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  26. No my favourite is Kev's 'Just a sarong at twilight.' Deeeelicious

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  27. Mrs P., I can indeed make a very jolly hat from it. I don't bring it anywhere near children as 99% of the time it stinks.

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  28. Beast, you will not be surprised - although maybe a little dismayed - to learn that Rimini is still Emilia Romagna's linedancing capital. Yesterday, I could not get near the Gambalunga for stetsons and spurs. The courtyards rang to the cries of yeeee-hah! It was horrifying.

    Pat, Kevin has the time to concentrate on this kind of folderol. The rest of us have coffee enemas to submit to. However, in the spirit of teilnehmen, as the Krauts have it, I append the following: Sarong and Winding Road, Sarong Farewell Auf Wiedersehen Goodbye, and Pansy Potter the Sarong Man's Daughter. I think I win.

    Gadj, you conjure up a peculiarly vile image. Still, steep your sarong in Stergene. It might just work.

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  29. Mrs P in kaolin? M'illumino d'immenso. And I hope they don't spare the morphine.

    As for packing, the peasants of Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia think the Empress Elisabeth is back whenever Mrs Boyo's train passes by.

    Mind you they could be right. I've never managed to open that Ottoman trunk.

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  30. My latest spa trip here

    Also, I always pack a tincture of iron perchloride just in case of acorn poisoning....one can't be too careful.

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  31. Just because that bloke off Kung Fu died in dubious circumstances, you're off to join a monastery and learn martial arts?

    Oh, KAOLIN. Sorry.

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  32. Ellis, Mah Zeh?!! Oh well, it looks as if you're enjoying it. Do be careful with acorns: there is a disease called Oak Wilt, and you will know if you get it. Some of my besieged old relatives drank acorn coffee in the Fatherland during the dark days of the old administration. My Great Aunt Gefen of Brixton says Kenco is the closest in taste.

    Daphne, I thought for one hideous, horrifying moment you had written marital arts. Something I could never master, I'm afraid.

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