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Mostly Cloudy, With Some Bright Spells
Yesterday afternoon I ate my way through an entire packet of The Natural Confectionary Co. jelly dinosaurs – brilliant, because there are no green ones, and I hate green sweets – and made a list of all the things I’d like to do if Gautier and I won Euro Millions. First off, he’d probably take his split and go and find a nubile young brunette who isn’t riddled with chronic illness, and who likes cleaning the house and making cherry tarts. I wouldn’t blame him, either. Meanwhile, I’d cry my eyes out for a week and then get on with spending my bit on:
Some land in Sussex upon which I would house eight alpacas of varying colours, six goats (again, of varying hues), four hens (a white one, a brown one, a black one and a speckled one) and some ducks (mallards, probably, they all look pretty much the same).
I’d then build a little barn thing which would be home to different species of wildlife who are a bit injured. Foxes, hedgehogs, squirrels, badgers, moles, brilliant animals like that. Maybe even eagles! Anyway, I’d employ my friend Jo to help me run the wildlife sanctuary and I’d come in and do stuff like feed hedgehogs and stroke flea-ridden foxes with bandaged legs. I cried when I saw this photo:
I would, of course, have to find somewhere for me (and all the furry kids I already have) to live, and as much as I love alpacas, I don’t want to sleep on hay and find them standing up and weeing on me in the middle of the night. I think I’d get a mad old Hansel and Gretel-style cottage built out of bits of old caves and rowing boats and find a model maker to sort me out with giant candy canes and stuff to stick on it.
Once the animals are sorted, I’d get my friend Coralie, who’s brilliant at knitting, to come and knit socks and pants and hats and scarves and curtains and cushion covers and carpets and lamps out of the alpaca fleece, with all profits going straight back into the animals’ upkeep, and a bit held back for me to exchange for bottles of vintage Port and Chateauneuf du Pape.
I’d grow my own vegetables and have a lake with fun boats on it, plus an actual Loch Ness monster. The lake would run into a moat which would run around the house, keeping unwanted visitors (the tax man, Jehovas Witnesses, people delivering takeaway flyers) at bay. I’d have a huge drawbridge which would be operated by Thor, who would also double-up as my new husband and general all-round good egg. He would have his own quarters where he’d skin animals to make rugs I wouldn’t want and to take time out with a Sudoko puzzle. I like to give a man his space, you see.
What else? Oh yeah, I’d give a load of it away to nice places like children’s hospices and respite centres and stuff like that, so that they could build play grounds and I’d also make them all a batch of rock cakes every Friday for when they were inundated with visitors. I could do this in my industrial-sized stone oven thing which would make up part of my outside cooking area, complete with enormous, dry-curing hams and stuff like that.
I’d go on some nice holidays, to be fair. A month in the Caribbean, sipping Pina Coladas on a white sandy beach and eating grilled fish every evening. I’d employ my friend Amy as a full-time hair stylist, and she could live in a windmill next to the house with her friend, Anna, who’s a nurse. Anna can sort out my injections and line up all my tablets and take my blood pressure every morning to make sure I’m not going to have a flipping heart attack from all the excitement of having a moat and alpacas and Thor as my husband.
I would dress exactly like Joan Collins dressed in the ’50s, the ’70s and the ’80s. I’d have three walk-in wardrobes which housed replicas of all her best outfits from those decades, and possibly a few actual outfits from Dynasty.
I’d go to Michelin-starred restaurants every Saturday and every Friday I’d have a whole lobster and a pile of scallops cooked for me at home by an attractive but mental Japanese girl, like Gogo out of Kill Bill.
Sundays would be roast dinner day. All this time I’d be trying to persuade my mum and dad to move from Kent to Sussex, and I’d swing it eventually by getting dad a load of Civil War rifles and stuff from the military shop in Brighton.
I’d make mum a room of her own covered in Cliff Richard posters and full of daffodils and a telly which showed the rubbish stuff she likes. Plus I’d get a cinema room built so we could watch films and the football on a giant screen and we’d have fish finger sandwiches and ginger beer brought to us by chimps.
What else? I’d have a treatment room where I could have massages and hot stone therapy and mud wraps and seaweed stuff put in my hair and my toenails painted with long-lasting glitter gel and my eyebrows plucked to perfection by a gentle crow. I’d have a massive hot tub with underwater massage things for my back, and I’d sleep under gargantuan alpaca wool blankets and subscribe to a million glossy magazines, all of which would be rubbish apart from the ones about wallpaper and tables.
I’d get the people who make those moving dinosaurs to come to our place and set up a load in the front garden. There’s one called an ‘ankylosaurus’ – so called because he’s got a messed up spine. I would give him pride of place and a giant hot water bottle for his back. Poor him. This is what the garden would look like. Be careful, postman!
I’d have all my shoes made bespoke so that they actually fit and didn’t hurt, and I’d have a perspex floor in the living room with white rabbits with actual dyed pink tails running around underneath it (in the rabbit room, to which I would gain access through a door covered in fake grass which could only be opened by a giant ‘carrot’ key).
I would buy an Aston Martin DB9, a 1950s custard-yellow Buick and red Chevy step side, an old New York police car from the ’70s – I almost bought one of these at an auction 10 years ago; dad went NUTS at me, so I didn’t – and a motorcycle with side car that I could nip to the sweet shop in with Pantouf as passenger. I’d also have a couple of donkeys and I’d ride them from one end of the garden to the other, and when they got bored, I’d do the same thing but on camels. I love camels. If, by some miracle, Gautier didn’t divorce me, he’d buy a Spitfire, and then some flying lessons.
Pantouf and all his brothers would have a massive bedroom with dinosaur duvets on their bunk beds and a stegosaurus made of velvet whose head would double-up as a night light. If you pressed the end of his tail he’d sing ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem’ (can’t remember who wrote that, probably Jesus), MC Hammer’s ‘You Can’t Touch This’, Madonna’s ‘Get Into The Groove’, Eddie Cochran’s ‘Boll Weevil Song’ and Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing With Myself’ on a loop until the kids fell asleep.
The Boll Weevil Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9uivguXs6wY
Oh, and I’d have a Helter Skelter built next to the house which I would retreat to to eat Galaxy Bites and drink vats of freshly ground coffee which makes me go crazy bonkers.
In the meantime, my Mini has just cost me £370 in repairs, I’m donating half the contents of my wardrobe to Chestnut Tree House Children’s Hospice because I don’t leave the house enough to warrant having so many clothes and shoes (I make Imelda Marcos look tame, although I’m sure her shoes aren’t second-hand ebay finds) and I’m making a small batch of rock cakes, just for us. It’s good to have dreams, though, right? Even if they are a bit mental…