Donning
my best penoir and house slippers, my touchstone of tyranny was quivering like
a catholic schoolgirl before entering the confessional for the first time since
summer camp.
Hosing
off Imelda’s night creams, Yum Yum shot me a quizzical look, “What bitch?” I
barked “it’s Jil Sander”
Grumpy
with Yum Yum’s insolent suggestions, I took my seat and waited for the stream
to start.
Around
the one minute mark I was squirming, ready to slither back inside mah crypt.
One by one, Simons sent an army of models clomping out onto the catwalk in flat
over the ankle riding/biker boots…YES that’s right, FLAT BOOTS.
“FLAT
BOOTS” Imelda roared, shaking the Palace of Despotism to its hastily
constructed foundations.
“FLAT
BOOTS at Jil Sander! Flats are for field hands!” I screamed again, wishing it wasn’t true. “Quelle Horrour. I wouldn’t
wish flat boots on my worst enemy aka Nancy Reagan”
Rushing
in with a cold compress and my smelling salts, Yum Yum tried to assuage my
distress but it was too late, the damage was done.
“Why
Raf, why?” I moaned one last time “you could have had it all, my love muffin,
my money…ok some of my money…it was yours for the taking”. Reaching for my category
one calmatives, I downed the entire bottle and waited for the sweet baby Jesus
in his Christmas crib to call me home!









