LES NEIGES D'ANTAN

The mercury has finally heaved itself into double figures and I am spending the weekend in my spiritual home, the City of Lights, eternal Paris, for some R&R with the Hornblowers in their luxurious pad ten minutes from the Arc de Triomphe and a little bit of business about a handbag.


Although, you know, the old place isn't what it used to be. It's all getting a bit pedestrian for my liking. There are Starbucks everywhere, for God's sake. McDonald's is still going great guns, even though they're Frenchified it somewhat. Monoprix, my favourite shop, has gone all trendy, and everywhere is non-smoking these days - how's an existentialist supposed to pose without a Gitane in hand? I'm not even that keen on the new sparkly Eiffel Tower, frankly I think it's cheap and nasty, but it makes the nouveau riche Chinese tourists go "ooh".


When I lived there, there was magic in the air. Surreal things would happen. Once, after a night on the town, I was sauntering down the Champs-Elysées to catch the last metro, when I caught in my peripheral vision someone walking behind me, slightly to the side, under the trees. I looked back over my shoulder and saw - I kid you not - Charlie Chaplin waddling down the avenue. He waggled his moustache and tipped his hat. I stopped to let him catch me up. "Bonjour" he said, offering me his arm. And Charlot and I walked all the way to the metro arm in arm. That was how Paris was in those days. Mad.





But some things don't change. The Seine is still the most picturesque and romantic city-centre river in the world. The Parisians are still stylish, elegant and arrogant. The smell of a fresh baguette is still heavenly. And whenever I'm there, I'm 28 again.

CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON

At last I have found my dream man. Sir Bonar Neville-Kingdom is the government's new Data Sharing Commissioner, and is demonstrating his computer-friendliness on a Facebook page and a clip on YouTube. He even 'Tweets'! He is divinely erudite - he can speak French, Swedish, Arabic, and even quotes poetry in High Persian - swoon-inducing stuff, girls! He makes Stephen Fry look like one of the Mitchell Brothers. He has that ineffable confidence that you only get from an Oxbridge education, but he's not elitist - he's a fan of Lily Allen for goodness sake - and is certainly up to speed with what's going on in the world of IT - here are some of his 'Tweets':

"It seems that my staff have put me on 'Face Book' and that I have several 'fans'. How very gratifying."

"I see no reason why taking a routine rectal DNA sample should be seen as any more instrusive than using words such as "Good day, Madam."

"Ah. Sandwiches. How lovely."


If you have a Face Book you can become a 'fan' and read the full extent of his wisdom, or even receive his 'Tweets' (whatever they are!). Here is his Face Book page.

Some people - Luddites, so they are - are opposed to the government's plan to centralize all information on the internet - or 'cloud computing' as the boffins call it. They say it's not secure. They say it could be misused, or even lost! Honestly, some people will pick holes in anything won't they, especially if it's going to improve our lives. Tall poppy syndrome. Sir Bonar, on the contrary, assures us that it is perfectly safe and will be securely encrypted by the boys in Cheltenham. It will be called the G-Cloud - not the G-spot, as Sir Bonar jokingly (I think) calls it. It will save the government loads of money - and no risk of losing our records any more - unless the internet blows up of course!

We, the taxpaying public, are apparently the owners of a number of Europe's banks now. Did they tell us when we would get our dividends? I don't even remember expressing an interest in buying a bank. Well apparently I'm a part owner of Dexia now, and don't even have a say in how it's run. The bankers, on the other hand, who caused all this mess, are still getting massive bonuses. I must have missed something somewhere, as I can't quite understand how this works. I'm sure they know what they're doing. It's just me, I'm too dim to understand. I'm going to write to Sir Bonar to see if he can explain this mystery. An immensely educated and eloquent man like him must be able to shed some light on it.

Here he is launching his programme in Sweden.

OH WHAT A CIRCUS

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MY BONNET LIES OVER THE OCEAN

In a couple of months I am going to New Mexico for a hat fitting. This might seem a little extravagant, but you don't know my milliner, Madame Chapeau, an extraordinary woman. She is of Comanche stock, and quite indestructible. After many years ekeing out a bohemian and somewhat undocumented existence in Paris, she returned to her ancestral homelands in Taos, where she has diversified into floral arrangements for the local native American owned casino. She speaks French with the most delightful western twang and smokes cheroots incessantly, whence her tribal name, Smokin' Squaw McGraw.

Smokin' Squaw looking suitably indestructible with one of her creations
(she's the one on the right). Photo by Jaap Vanderplas

Taos is the most godawful place to get to. The nearest airport is Albuquerque, which you can only get to from Denver or Los Angeles. So I thought what the hell, I know people in Beverly Hills. Little George Clooney is always asking me to come over and teach him macramé. After factoring in a stopover in Hollywood (oh! the glamour!), I shall fly from LA to Albuquerque, then continue on the famous Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe railroad. As can be seen from this clip, a new bonnet is de rigueur in Sante Fe.

Madame Chapeau-McGraw and I knew each other in Paris many years back, where she made the extravagant headdresses for the tableaux at the Folies. I remember one magnificent headdress she made for me made entirely out of bananas. I can't quite remember what the dance was, but I know it was banned after the first performance. I am told I cannot take fresh fruit into California, so if I have to transit via LAX on the way home, I'll eat my hat.

DUENDE

Yikes! It's the weekend already. I've prepared nothing for you, darlings. I've been too busy practising my flamenco dancing for my solo at the KNOB's Spanish night. My role in the band has changed somewhat since Bert's departure and they have decided my previous terpsichorean experience treading the boards at the Folies Bergère might come in handy after all.

I decided to call up my old friend Manitas de Plata to help me out. We have known each other for years, ever since his caravan broke down outside my house. I invited him in for a cup of tea and a bucket of water for his horse while we were waiting for the AA, and he noticed I had his first album, "Hommages", the one with the photograph of Bridget Bardot simpering up at him while he twanged his banjo.


"What did you think of this album?" he asked. "Well, to be honest," I replied, "I thought it sounded like a series of warm-up exercises."

He roared with laughter. "That's exactly what it was!" he admitted cheerfully. "I just called each exercise by a different name - Hommage to Pablo Picasso, Brigitte Bardot, Jean Cocteau, etc."

I gave him a reproving look. "You naughty man!" He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me guiltily. "But I am a gipsy! What do you expect?" he asked, slipping my silver cake knife into his pocket.

I forgave him but last week I reminded him of his kleptomania when I called him for help with my flamenco dancing.

"Si, Daphne, I am still using the cake knife," he said, "Only last week I used it to regrout my garden wall."

"Now listen, hombre," I said, "I need some tips for flamenco dancing."

"Nothing to it duchess," he replied, "Remember my warm up exercises? Well flamenco dancing is pretty much the same thing. Stamp your feet a bit, wave your arms about and look cross, and nobody will know you're not the real thing."

"Really?" I murmured, doubtfully. "I don't think that'll fool anyone."

"Well, failing that," continued Manitas, "think of Joaquin Cortez."


I think Alicia Keys may have been given the same advice.