I MET GYPPO

Sunday 6 September got home from Eze.

Monday to Friday schlepped around.

Saturday - tonight - met Gyppo Byard! How lucky am I? How lucky is he?

SUM OF ALL ITS PARTS

Mes chers amis

How grateful I am to you all for your continued interest in my godson, Wulfric. I know that there is just one question on your lips tonight: what did he get? Well, you may all crack open a bouteille of Uerziger Wurzgarten 1961 and drink a deep draught, for the boy got straight As and is off to his reward. Let the toast be Rugby School, and let the response be Ed Balls God Bless Him. I like to think that I have played a vital role in the lad's success, although this may be met with scorn in some grittier quarters (Mr Beast of Bournemouth). The fact is, although relentlessly loaded and repeatedly wrecked, I know my maths, which comes as a vile shock to some ingrates (Mr Inky Inkermann: I once trounced him with my take on Kronecker's work) who can't believe that it sits comfortably with my glamorous life. To them I say this: it is all in the genes, and there is nothing to be done about it; like maternal-pattern baldness, for example.

My dear old father died in February, and I am still clearing a mountain of paperwork. I have mentioned his journals before, I know, particularly his Restaurant Reviews ("The Americans Paid!" ..... "...the worst escalope di vitello farcita I have ever eaten ...", ..."pantouffle Perigourdine in Abergavenny ...", ......"A 1945 ch. Croizet Bages didn't disappoint ..." etc. etc ....) and also his archive of arithmetic. He was a man of parts, my father. He loved football and rugby, Mahler, Joseph Conrad and Kim Novak, but mainly he loved maths. It was his hobby. He was a General Practitioner of the old school, with a surgery in a Thameside village and a private practice in London (now don't get snotty - they ALL did in those days) but he couldn't do a crossword puzzle to save his life. I will never forget how he tore his hair out over one clue: Sloppy Onward Address (4). The harridan and I got it immediately*. He gave up without a fight. He found his relaxation in numbers and, like his friend Lancelot Hogben, filled his journals with his thoughts. I found this today, dated November 1959:

"De Moivre discovered a new field of calculating devices by using the mathematical gerund i as Diophantus had used the mathematical gerund "-a". What is called de Moivre's theorem started a new chapter in modern algebra just as the law of signs started a new chapter in the algebra of antiquity. de Moivre's theorem, like the binomial theorem of Omar Khayyam is a rule for raising a quantity to some power represented by the operator n written in the top left hand corner".

He then gives an example with which I won't bore you. The point is that he was attempting to say something powerful. Namely, don't bother about the meaning of this, because a rule in mathematics is either a statement about its consistency with with other rules, or a statement about how it can be used. First of all, you should satisfy yourself that it is consistent with what you know already about sines, cosines, negative quantities, square roots and powers. I hope I haven't lost you. He then goes onto some theorising about vector analysis and finally uses a word I have never seen before: mantissa (the positive fractional part of the logarithm). The irony isn't lost on me. I'm sure this word will come up in a crossword. Probably this week.

Forgive me, I am a bit maudlin and a bit pissed. What a combination! However, I quite like it. It is the end of a working week and, ever since I came out to you as a member of the real economy with a real job, my inbox has been becrammed with bleatings. Mrs Pouncer! (they say) Are you really a woman of commerce? And to this I say, yes, I am, and I Kick Ass on the High Street. For those who still languish in the mire of disbelief, I give my Glossary of Commercial Terms.

An AGENT is a person who transacts business for another. His CHARGE or FEE is usually so much percent of the value of the business carried out. This is called COMMISSION. An agent who buys and sells shares is called a BROKER and his charge is called BROKERAGE. The term DISCOUNT is used to mean a percentage taken off amount payable. DEPRECIATION is noted as a stocktaking percentage written off each year to meet decrease in value - generally quoted at 1% on buildings, 5% on stock and 10% on machinery. All debts a man owes are his LIABILITIES. All his possessions are his ASSETS. If his liabilities are greater than his assets, he is INSOLVENT. To whom he owes money are called his CREDITORS. The term DISCOUNT is also used in buying and selling to mean a percentage off an amount payable. This is known as TRADE DISCOUNT. Yes, I am JEWISH. Try these handy problems to see if you've kept up:

1. A bankrupt owes £73,5000 and his assets realise £11,630. What can he pay per £1?

2. A bill of £400 drawn 1 August at 6 months was discounted 4 August at 8 per cent. What amount of discount was deducted?

3. How much is written off for depreciation in three years at 5% on plant originally worth £3500?

4. A,B & C each contribute £680 to a business capital. A's lies all year, ~B's for 10 months and C's for 8 months. If the profit is £412 how much should each receive?

5. If 12 oxen and 35 sheep eat 12 tons 12 cwts of hay in 8 days, how much will it cost to feed 9 oxen and 12 sheep for 14 days, the price of hay being £4 per ton and 3 oxen eating as much as 7 sheep?

My godson, bound as he is for Peterhouse to read Maths, looked blank. I was appalled and gratified. You see, we ARE cleverer, no matter what Mr A. Salmond, finder of lost children and truly my brother's keeper, may think, and thank heavens for that.

*The answer is MUSH.

MUMMERSET

Mes tres chers amis

I will be incommunicado for some days.  Tomorrow, I have to deliver Mutti, the glamorous old harridan, to her cousin's cottage in Corfe Castle, a gloomsome model village, built to scale, in an inaccessible part of Dorset, or Darzet as the locals have it.  There is no room for me in the begrimed hovel, I am relieved to report, so I shall stay for two nights at Mortons House Hotel (no apostrophe), a ludicrously self-satisfied almost-adequate on a busy road.  I see that it has been awarded the Bronze Award for Accessible Entry by the South Wales Tourist Board.  This accolade moves me to an incandescent rage.  Why should Accessible Entry be so important to the Southern Welsh?  Some people are hoity-toity, I must say.  What about the North Walians?  Do they prefer something more challenging?  And who won the Gold?  Rest assured, I shall be making careful note of how accessible I find entry on arrival.  If I find it wanting, I shall say.  Or I shall move to the Bankes Arms across the road.  The entry there is very accessible, although the exit is oft-times more difficult, particularly when one is incapable through drink, or attempting to squeeze through the huge oaken doorway whilst a stout party from the Midlands is adjusting his dress.

I hope you will wish me Godspeed and good weather.  This time last year, you will recall, I was in Antibes for a month,  the toast of Cap d'Agde and dining with the Michael Howards.  How times change!  Saturday night will find me sitting on my chaste couch, gazing at a distant vista of the Purbeck hills, a large vodka and slimline in one hand and 40mg of Flupenthixol Decanoate in the other.

BODY FASCIST

Mes chers amis

My friend, Mapstew, asks why I wouldn't want to be Beth Ditto, and I can answer this impertinent question with two words: fat lesbian.  I would be completely hopeless as a fat person, and particularly useless as a lesbian finding hot girl-on-girl action a huge yawnarama.  I am sorry to say that some disappointed suitors can attest to this.  Also, I do not have the discipline and commitment required to become truly fat, as I am easily distracted from the task in hand (eg eating a pie) and I am too nervous to enter a fast food establishment.  Occasionally, when my prodigal son turns up on the doorstep, with his burning eyes, his hacking cough and raccoon skin hat, I take him for a Drive Thru at MacDonalds.  I don't mind doing this.  My boy shouts his order into an intercom and the wageslave asks if he wants to go large.  Occasionally, I will agree to a Diet Cherry Coke, but I have never had a cheeseburger, nor a Whoppa in my mouth.  The MacDonalds we prefer is opposite Reading Gaol.  Sometimes, if we park up, my son will observe that it looks fucking awful.  

I see other people going into fast fooderies and I envy them.  They seem to know what to do.  I would be completely lost, because you have to place your order immediately, or risk annoying the queue, and you have to know which sauce you prefer.  Under no circumstances can you change your mind,  and the napkins are kept in a patented plexiglass trap.  This is all I know of MacDonalds.  I cannot even begin to imagine what goes on in KFC or Domino's.  However, I have to tell you that in Marlow we still have a Wimpy Bar.  Yes, really, we do.  The Henley Branch has only just closed down (to make way for an Oxfam Bookshop of all the gloomsome things!) so connoisseurs of frankfurters twirled around fried eggs and the fabled Brown Derby dessert have to head down-river.  You will be relieved to hear that it is still strictly waitress service and that the menu is illustrated, as it ever was, with highly coloured photographs of the fare.  All you have to do is point.  No flimflam about sauces, either, as there is a red plastic tomato and a ridged brown dispenser on every table.  The dimmer of my twins worked the Gaggia there during one unforgettable summer.  His spirited cry of "Una cappuccino, no froth!" was strictly pre-Starbucks.

But I digress.  My thrust here is weight.  My mailbox is oft-times becrammed with the plaintive plea:  Mrs Pouncer, how do you retain your schoolgirl figure (ie that of Marigold Russell in the first reel of Blue Murder at St Trinian's, gymslip and all)?  My answer is simple: history.  It is a generational thing, I'm afraid, and there is nothing that portly youth can do about it.  In the 1970s we walked everywhere; there was no rural bus service to speak of, and parents did not operate as Licensed Cab Drivers in those days.  Food in England was not easily available: you had to sit down to eat, for one thing.  The thought of Boots the Chemist providing sandwiches and Fruits of the Forest Yogosnaps was unthinkable then.  There were chipshops, yes, but none operated before 6.00 pm, and the only Kebab house I knew of was in Lambs Conduit Street.  I know some of you will yield up the appalling cry: what about sausage rolls and Oeufs Ecossais then, Mrs Pouncer?  Non-kosher, you aunts.

We all smoked, and when not smoking we chewed gum.  And then there were diet drinks.  How we loved them! My friends would neck quarts of Fresca and Diet Coke (Just For The Taste Of It!) but I loved Tab beyond all human comprehension.  I wouldn't have touched Tango with a bargepole; if it wasn't crammed full of cyclamates and sodium benzoate, I wasn't drinking - and none of this Tommyrot about how it inhibited mitachondrial DNA, either!  We couldn't care less.  We were on a roll then (an Energen Starch Reduced one) as the diet industry kicked in and lycra became leisure wear.  We had Limmits Crackers, Outline Low Fat Spread, ToniBell yoghurt and Savoury Beef Bisks - and whatever happened to Ayds?  Actually, I never ate any of this stuff, as by then I was supporting a moderate barb. habit and tipped the scales at just under 8 stone.  Of course, it wasn't healthy, I am not pretending it was, but the pavements were not logjammed with hefting teenagers who are too fat to care.  That can't be healthy either, can it? 

The trouble is that a healthy diet is a dreary diet, but I would always put my hand up for more spinach, raspberries, kneidlach, marzipan and vodka.  That's balance.

DEMOGRAPHICS

My dear friends

I have just come in from a terrible evening at a drearsome bar in Windsor.  Over-priced and under-staffed, the clientele was of the basest kind:  vile old junk-bond traders, lady watercolourists, friends of Princess Eugenie and raddled old inebriates, self included.  A bad-shave Turk sang Baglasam Durmam in a threatening way.  I retaliated with L'hatchil l'hamshich, and things might have turned ugly, but luckily I accepted a Pink Squirrel* from an admiring Armenian,  and we were all smiles before the bell tolled.

Why should a licensed premises be so becrammed with people you would hope didn't exist?  The whole thing is beyond reason.  I don't include myself in that doomed roll call, of course, but it did make me think of who I really wouldn't want to be.  I scribbled this list down in the taxi home:

As Clarissa Pouncer awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, she found she had been turned into:

1. Herostratus

2. Virginia Wade

3. Ron Weasley

4. Moira Anderson

5. Kappauf of Citizen K

6. Beth Ditto

7. Nicolas Copernicus

8. Lilian Bellamy

9. Rod Blagojevich

10. Mr Jacqui Smith

I do hope you agree with my selection.

*Pink Squirrel

1 oz creme de noyaux

1 oz white creme de cacao

1 oz cream

Shake with ice

WAGES OF SIN

Hi Honey, I'm ho-ome.  I can imagine how thrilled you all must be!  Rest assured, I will be giving you the skinny on Rimmy just as soon as I am choc-full of Sinequan and soda, but for now I provide these opulent pensees to tide you over.  I fully intend to publish a small travel tome which I will have privately printed, bound in deerhide with an overall Chinoiserie motif and tooled in the Grolieresque tradition with gilt and guilt.  It is to be entitled Rimini Ways and Rimini Days and will remind some of the works of Ex-Crown Princess Hedwig of Saxe-Rothenburg.

 Just to give you some clue as to the state I'm in,  I must tell you that I took a taxi from Heathrow to home.  I could not face the Railair bus; I am sorry, I just couldn't.  A surfeit of alcohol and not much sleep has left me jittery and unstable.  At the airport I ate a sausage roll. That is how bad I am.  Non-kosher carbs in full view of the El Al frequent flyer lounge. Desperate.

Since revealing myself to be a member of the real economy, with a real job in which I meet real people and make real decisions, my inbox has been becrammed with demands from dreary women wanting to know the secrets of my success.  What shall we wear?  What shall we buy? With whom should we be seen?  This is the burden of their song.  Obviously, I am uniquely placed to answer these pleas, but I do not want to alienate my menfolk, or Kev and Gadj. Therefore, for a limited period only, I intend to split my posts into two distinct halves: one for each gender.  I will strive to make it abundantly clear which is which.

Can I say that these unimaginative enquirers are not my regular readers.  They do not feature in my comment box, nor are they fans or followers.  Many are from the United States and host knitting blogs.  Some are Australian.  There is a Canadian, a South African, three Kiwis and a farmer's wife from the Falklands.   A harridan from the Netherlands wants to know about Coccinelle bucket bags, and two Austrians - twins - ask if I know Vincent Lacrocq.  I am even solicited from Sweden!  Who would have thought that race would need style counsel?  (unbridled mirth here from Mrs Pouncer who believes the Swedes to be out there in the frump-stakes, Abba notwithstanding.  And I don't care what anyone says, the blonde one had clinical lordosis which is why she wore johdpurs and  zouaves.  I am  a doctor's daughter.  I see these things).  A native Emirati issues a poignant plea: I wear a floor-length black niqab every day. How should I accessorize?  And a Latvian hussy boasts about her huge rack before asking about Agent Prov's new fishnet knickers.   See what I am up against!  The job is almost too big, but I am up to the challenge, I know I am.   Now, just follow me:

LADIES FIRST

(Everything you read here is true.  I don't fuck about with "in my opinion" or "it's a matter of personal choice".  You must follow my advice to the very letter.   Otherwise, it is all a waste of my precious time).

Q.  Which black eyeliner should I buy?  I want to look like you.

A.  Guerlain's Indian Black Kohl.  If you are poor, or live in an area that still supports a Budgen (most of Wiltshire; Telford, etc) Dolce & Gabbana's Stromboli Eye Pencil comes in at £5 cheaper.

Q. I am going to the seaside.  Usually, I go to Antibes, but this year I am poor and have to go to Camber Sands.  How can I avoid suicide?

A. Silly!  An oversize Irwin & Jordan shirt (the androgynous shift is the only thing to wear a la plage this  year; do NOT lie down and die in a Matthew Williamson kaftan), a pair of Casadei gold sandals, a huge Epice bag and  a bright yellow Agua Bendita.  You can then ignore your irredeemably prolly surroundings.  Don't forget to sneer.  Do not buy a Mivvy from the icecream man.  Do not strike up a conversation with a pleb.

Q.  Quick, Mrs Pouncer!  I stink of drink and Kensitas!

A.  Dr Maroon!  You are in the wrong section!  However, I am nothing if not giving and Marc Jacobs Splash Sorbet in Grapefruit can be used by either gender without their sexuality being called into question.  It is also available in Pear & Basil, which you might like to spritz over your oatmeal, hemhem.

Q.  Mrs Pouncer, why can't I be you?

A.  Good heavens!  I would have thought that was obvious.  However, never say die.  Start with Sisleya Radiance Anti-Ageing Concentrate (£200 House of Fraser, Selfridges, Harrods, Harvey Nicks.  Not Boots; not Superdrug) and work down.  Agent Prov's new fishnet knickers cannot fail.  And hips don't lie, as Shakira reminds us.  Get your hair cut by Sam McKnight - say I sent you.  Wear Plexiglass jewellery and Nicholas Ghesquiere glasses.  Own at least one vintage Halston piece and a silk dress by Missoni. Drink gin.  Sleep alone.

Q.  What about minge?

A.  Ye Gods!  How vile!  Who are you?  No, never mind.  Go to St James's Beauty Rooms (Strutton Ground, SW1) where they do the most painfree Brazilians.  Between times, Gillette's Venus Embrace is the only thing to use, particularly if you have a shaky hand.

Q.  Mrs Pouncer, I have done everything a bad man asked me to.  How much should this be worth in pounds sterling, or as some tchotchke or other?

A.  You sound like my younger self!  The Wages of Sin this season are easily identified:  A Mulberry Bayswater clutch, a Mulberry Piccadilly high-heel pump and a night at the Langham (Portland Place; 020 7965 0191) should suffice.

I do hope you have all benefited from this advice.  Tomorrow, I will address the men.  But now ... I drink!

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!