The Fag Hag got an intriguing alert from Fag Hag gal pal Polly today. ‘I received a letter with your name on it this morning !’ she chirruped over the worldwide web before continuing. ‘ Why? How? Can I open it?’
Well hold those inquisitive acrylic nails just a minute, girlfren’. And give me just a little more time to put on my Harriet the Spy specs, tap my chin with pencil (like woman playing secretary in Cosmopolitan shoot) and work out what fresh hell might be lurking in that damn envelope.
Why was it sent to Fag Hag gal pal Polly and not me? What if it’s the delayed results back from the Archway sexual health clinic in 1994 and I’d given Polly’s address so as not to distress Fag Hag mum? What if it’s a Tyra mail and Polly has in her hands the names of the two girls still in the running to become America’s Next Top Model and Polly didn’t make it but the Fag Hag did? Or what if god was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?
The stress was doing extraordinary things to me. There was nothing for it. ‘Just open the darn thing. I want to see it all now’, I instructed, sounding not unlike a rather impatient ex-boyfriend of mine. ‘Oh!’ she screeched finally as ripping sounds pervaded the air. ‘They’re here! Our Balans loyalty cards have arrived!!’
Danielle Lloyd can keep her Mahiki parties to honour a party organiser called Jermaine launching a range of trilby hats – that’s what I call the best ever opening of an envelope.