Fag Hag Diary

Miss Dean.

The Fag Hag has been suffering from wedding list stress. I’ve left it until last orders to make my choice, and like a footballer in Chinawhites at closing time, I’m faced with two choices – the skanky old dregs or something I’ll have to pay through the nose for.

I realised with horror it all came down to a nylon mattress protector, two napkin rings, or an HD telly for £600. So I did what any sane person does in this situation and got straight on the phone to Tiffany’s.

A lady called Ivanka who sounded like she might get bought a lot of champagne by businessmen in the Harvey Nichols 5th floor bar took my order. ‘I’ll take those two crystal martini glasses please,’ I said, feeling sure she’d be impressed by my innate sense of style, taste and eye for a bargain. ‘Oh. Oh really?’ she said warily. ‘Why yes. Is there a problem?’ Ivanka paused carefully. ‘Oh yes no problem. Is just normally American who buy this. I thought English people choose… different style.’

It was the most brilliantly democratic way of telling me I was about to buy a load of old cock and I loved her for it. Ivanka expertly steered me in the direction of some far less JR Ewing, plain stemless brandy snifters by Elsa Peretti and everyone was happy.

I am now considering getting her to come and sift through my wardrobe, just to hear her say of my underwear collection, ‘Oh. Yes no problem. Is just normally sleazy crack whore who buy this.’

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