A Contemplative Moment

The scene: Mary, sitting alone on a balcony overlooking Wineglass Bay. Just nearby, a little state-of-the-art DVD recorder is set up. The lens is pointing at Mary. Inside, the rest of the Boganson family is sitting around on the floor watching the Australian Idol final; Erin and Kate disagree about it being Damien or Jess who deserves the title. The nanny is putting Christian to bed. All is calm, all is bright.

Frederik is gazing around the room and thinks, "Tralalalala, all those Bogansons are so beautiful! And I'm so witty! Everything looks shiny! I want to dance! Darling... darling... your extra ankle bone's gone. Oh, it's the table leg."

Jane: "What on earth is she doing?"

John Stuart: "While you were doing your compulsory - and not helpful I might add - skin routine just then, she got the shits with us because we wouldn't watch any more replays of her crap, and the kids want to watch Idol. Plus all Fred wanted was to play Monopoly and Sailor Scrabble. He's trying to recreate the Nanoq. 'Cept I can't swear hard enough in Danish. And I can't match his repertoire of international sex acts. What the hell is a buccinator chokehold, anyway?"

Mary (to camera, pouts. Pulls lip up exposing receding gums. Lifts side wings of wig. Looks glum): "I hate my family. I so hate them. Christ, three days! Three freaking days! Managed to shop day 1 and day 2. Now what!? Fred armed himself with rollmops. Fuck their inconsiderate crap! I told them: rollmops. Beer. Whiskey. Bit of porn - you know: fat brunettes, Romanian lady wrestlers, nannies, Mental Health Nurses, old biddies with teeth stained brown, mermaids (the real thing i.e. walruses). Why can't they geddit? Noooooo, they go and get him a frigging porn mag full of blondes. THAT'S all I need. Once he's off dreaming of hair like brass wool next thing he'll be across Bass Strait and confiding in frigging Amber. I had to agree for them to let him out for half an hour. Don't the realise how dangerous that can be? It's like releasing a mental patient! Hmmm - this is a cute angle. (Licks lips)

Anyway, it's harder than I expected. You don't realise how rarefied you become. My skin only touches white Irish linen at home - Egyptian cotton scratches my skin. I told Jane to get fine sheets, and she didn't. Or maybe she's using them herself. Anyway, I didn't realise how much peasants SMELL. I mean, all I smell at home is flowers, scent, orchids and Fred doesn't have any testosterone so he just smells of ice - of various kinds. It's quite clinical actually - the lab smell lingers. Oh, and smoked cod. That's OK, I strike that when I have to go near Daisy. So this is a real hardship post, but all in all a good cause! Seen to be CLOSE-KNIT. Think it's working. Got a quick lift to Melbourne yesterday, in, out, in disguise: without gold shoes, gold sunnies, gold bangles and mica polish all over my skin NO ONE SEES ME. It's a bit of a worry, no one recognises me. Two hours shopping up and down Collins Street - it is tough exercise keeping the jowls tucked up under the chin - and not ONE furtive admiring glance. I even went to Fifteen for lunch and got mistaken for one of the street kids. Shit, bad angle. (adjusts camera to shoot from above) Where was I? Yeah. The stinking peasants. And where the hell did those freckles come from? Freckled niece? That's so bog Irish. Better be Craig's side of the family. I swear if this next baby looks Irish I'll get it swapped. I don't trust that Yehudi - Kate Fischer genes indeed! I've actually been wondering whether Fred and I should do the Africa adoption thing; it's better on one's figure.

Mmmmmm, this contemplation is very good for me. I'm being very spiritual. That's good, and VERY in at the moment. Oh, that reminds me - THE PLAN. On hold for now, dammit. Calm, down, Mary. Do I really want to share the power with those half-lives? They play - and enjoy! - BOGGLE. At least it anaesthetises Frederik and I get to look at him with his eyes closed. He looks like a cross between a gosling and a Martian. He's just kinda off. That's the most frustrating thing for a perfectionist like I am. If only I could just reach in past those pores and do a bit of adult genetic manipulation. In between planning for our fun on the mainland, Hamish told me about epigenetics the other day. I could do that with enough whiskey probably and Per wouldn't blink at a large order of the stuff. I need to soften Fred's bones or something, get him stretched. Photoshopping the pix used to be enough, but trouble with this sort of gig is, you just want more.

Here I am, supposed to be on holiday and I manufacture my own footage. Why should I have to do that? Why don't my family look after me? Do I really want to take over Denmark with THIS crew of losers? Why can't I do what Madonna's doing and have a nice light black baby? My stock would shoot through the roof! 'Course, they'd say it was Snoop Dogg's. Still! I don't want a pudding brat affecting my posture. I mean, the stoop is bad enough, but he's twisting me sideways in addition. It only takes five minutes a week, obviously, because that's all the time I spend holding him. My spine's already out of kilter what with the chin thrust for jowl removal being compensated at my business end by the baboon posture. What's the worst bit of my life at the moment? (Assumes tragic expression) Nuh. Bone structure won't take tragic. Have to stick with smile through bittersweet tears. Must remind Fred he'd damn well better not try some tragic backstory on me. He has a ruthless streak. Talk about the worm turning! He's looking suspiciously happy, little bastard. I misjudged that. He was supposed to recover just enough to become bearable, not actually become good. That makes me FURIOUS, and he knows it. (Bites lip) OK, 24 hours till I hit the shops again.

(Breathes in deeply, exhales slowly) And I HATE goddamn Max Markson. As soon as the Australian Government pulled the plug on me after an audience survey (WHAT audience is what I say!) he has the hide to tell me they're 18 months out from an election and if they pay my way again they'll be kicked out of office. So, that's John Howard I have to hate, too - hate again, aksherly, since I already hate him for loving those pommie royals more than me, er, us. And despite it being so easy, hating people makes my skin bad, and then it's another trip to London for a paste of MixMastered lamb foetuses. Fool me. I could have done the Princess Anne thing - learnt to actually ride a horse, worn scarves around my chin, relaxed in gumboots. Fool me. (Smooths scowl from forehead) I really am a martyr to the cause. What commitment! Looking good! Joan of Arc was tall and wore lots of metal too, just like me. They're of my ilk - the Saint Joans...Marie Thérèse...Diane de Poitiers. Other great beauties have had hard moments: then a smudge of oil paint (they didn't have Photoshop) and history lies for them forever. That's my destiny. Eternal beauty...an eternal flame of my spirit, over the eventual tomb of the Misunderstood Princess. WWDD...What Would Diana Do... (Sighs deeply as befitting a woman with the angst of two entire populaces upon her.)

Jane: "Meeeeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy! C'mon now, they're about to announce the winner!! Doncha wanna know who it is?"

Mary, to no one in particular: "Well, it's not me, my friend, it's sure as hell not ME."

Dockside deals

Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark, aka "Fred":
"Hey, guys, it's great to meet you and hang out together. Wonderful weather we're having, wouldn't you agree? I understand that John here was telling you all about the red velvet diplomatic bag that I've travelled down here with. Actually a new American musician friend filled it back up for me recently. I thought maybe you'd like to check it out and "examine the contents", as it were, hehe. Ladies first, right fellas? There, go ahead, take it. I think you'll really like it. Now, say, who amongst you sails? Anyone? No? Hm, well, who here likes a good beer, eh, any takers? What? Oh, yes, well, right, yes I suppose I could purchase a few cases of beer and some snacks, sounds great. Yeah. So you all used to skip school together? Excellent. Gosh, this is great, guys, isn't it?"

Bald friend: "John, uh, your fucking fly is down, mate. Hey, how much you asking for the car?"

John Stuart Boganson's butt crack:
"You media FUCKWADS! This was suppos'd to be a PRRRRRIVATE meeting. Get the fuck oot of 'ere. We're not doin' anythin bad or illegal or anythin, so just get the FUCK OUT OF 'ERE! You're all a bunch of the suckingest dick suckers who ever SUCKED, so suck it and mouv on! New! Before I sprrray you with some of my Skanknak-MacBoganderry juice. Yeah, you thought me sister's butt was tellin' ya somethin' at the zoo. You ain't seen nothin'! New, BEAT IT!"

Tall, hairy friend:
"John, where did you fucking find this guy, this is amazing. I can't believe you guys scored like a total ambassador's stash. Shit, we're not being watched or followed are we? Man, I can't believe this primo stuff! This is sweet! We don't have to pay for this do we, mate? Hey, we've got to take this guy back to my place and just get stoked. Kim broke up with me, bitch, so I've the place to myself now. We can hang out on the futon all night and just enjoy the fucking show! Killer! This is so AWESOME! You really gonna be a fucking king? Hey, kick that pommie bastard Charles in the nads for me, huh - you're way better."

Girl:
"Really? Me? Oh my god? Thank you, wow, thank you so much. So, you're really a prince, right? Wow. You're so funny and witty, too. Hahahaha, oh stop, you're too much, oh my god."

Little guy:
"I get really hungry when I'm stoned, like I really have to have some pizza. Really bad. With like green olives, mate. Not black olives, green olives. You know, like the kind they put in martinis, but you know, without the little red thing in the middle of it. I think it's called a pimento or maybe it's a piece of red pepper or tomato or something. I don't know, but anyway it's that kind of green olive. Definitely not the black ones. I think those are from a can, you can't even taste any brine. No real olive-y taste. You've got to have that salty olive-y taste. Hey, Fred, does Snoop Dogg like pizza?"

Granny panties

Welcome back to Nature: Stranger than Fiction. We now turn our camera to a rare sighting of a Hobart-based Boganson tribal ceremony. Shhhhhh. We must be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb them. They are known to be a rather self-conscious group, good at preening and glowering under view, so we must do our best to leave them the impression they are not being watched.

It seems the "female" of the group on the far left is undergoing a Power Transfer from the wee marsupial, held up as a symbol of Boganson prestige. This animal is cunning, sly and communicates from the buttocks as it emits a powerful yet scentless odour that renders its victims charmed and sugar-coated, all traits that will be transfered to the young chieftainette. This Boganson is clearly dressed for the occasion in tribal relicry and ornamentation: the over-large sunnies holding back the new Romanian tress extensions, the many gold bangles (surely a fertility gift from the one chosen to mate with her), and a little junior Boganson-Glucksborg talisman in her left ham whose dentifrice contains the potent holy grail of Boganson tribal magic. She squats into position as if to eliminate waste, however in her case, nothing in, nothing out. Yet it is this position that allows her own buttocks to send and receive messages. As her business end is only on the receiving end of messages and power from the animal-god, it is safely covered in granny panties so as not reveal anything thoughts to an intruder. Bum crack is only exposed when messages are being sent out, such as when the subject "spoke" to those downhill from her while walking away with the junior talisman, but not when receiving such as we see today. Clearly in this subject's case, gravidity allows for more clear communications, since there is more "junk in the trunk", as the father-donor's new pals would describe the speaker-device.

The Boganson filly's stylist, we have learned, has been temporarily sent to an undisclosed location without communication possibilities with the outside world until her client returns to Danish soil so as not to react to the exposed granny panties with more disgust and frustration, not bothering to comprehend the greater meaning behind the knicker reveal. In fact, D-list celebrities are the least immune to the wizardry our subject demonstrates here; even if located on the mainland, they keel over in delight at the falling stock of their "friends" as such sightings seem on the surface at least to increase their own negotiating power with the flirtatious but oft evil bitch known as celebrity. The Western world, and certainly in quarters concerned with "fashion" and "style", does not understand that there is no shame in high water undies, as is so clearly prized in Boganson tribal rituals. Outsiders rarely give pause to the idea that this is a deliberate and clever maneover, instead often using a sighting of elastic bands as an excuse to grab upward and scream "wedgie". This would be a very unwise move to make with a Boganson, and it is for this that our young heiress to the Skanknak-MacBoganderry clan is now surrounded by bodyguards.

Wait, what is this? Oh, my, how about that! The junior Boganson-Glucksborg has kicked the animal-god in the face! My goodness! What will this do to the transfer of power? How will the animal-god react? Oh, my! My! Did you see that, everyone? A quick squirt of urine toward Ms. Boganson is a defense mechanism designed to put interlopers back on notice as to just who is running things. Let that be a warning to you at home: those who cross the Boganson magic or put it into jeopardy will see a quick reckoning. Moral to the story: never get your granny panties in a twist! Or else, ay!

Yehudi's note to Rob Roy

To: Rob Roy Woad-bod
From: Yehudi Geldstein
Date: 26 November 2006
Re: Next Glucksborg-Boganson genetic experiment

Dear Mr. Woad-bod,

Please let this email serve as final invoice for services rendered in ensuring the incubation of the second heir to the Skanknak-MacBoganderry tribe (totem from the Tasmanian side: Echidna, and from the Scots side: Bagpipe Bong). By now you can see that despite the Crown Princess’s abysmal solid caloric intake, her pictish stomach muscles have been rendered weakened and therefore there is sufficient abdominal evidence that indeed, our latest genetic experiment is in full force.

We believe that you will be very pleased with the results of this latest fecundation. Our medical team was successful in incorporating some of the left-over Glucksborg samples taken by the Crown Prince at his Norwegian cousin’s christening, and conjoining them with some “new” and “novel” cells in London during a “shopping visit” during which time the crown princess was required to wear a jacket of tribal green in order to channel all of the envy and money lust that the Bogansons possess. The resulting cellular mixture that was created was successfully implanted into the hormonally-induced nest that is the youngest Boganson daughter’s womb, a physical salmagundi designed with laproscopic precision by my somewhat distinguished colleague, Schlomo Feldman.

Dr. Feldman, you will recall, is the genius behind the surgery performed in utero on Prince Xn in order to transfer the Boganson tribal dental magic from his grandpappy. The Chad Morgan smile is safe for another generation. I will never understand why Jock Boganson actually thought that “going Hollywood” would be a good idea, but clearly the opportunities for slurping at the royal Danish trough are proving too great for him and his missus to be patient about waiting for the legal rights to such goodies. I received a copy of your letter to him warning him of the risks of such a makeover, but alas, greed and entitlement are components of the Boganson family make-up.

Your recent correspondence referred to my earlier ‘error’ in performing genetic analysis on a sample of DNA that was not the princess. I maintain that the mistake was made because the sample was taken from Miss Kate Fischer, James Packer’s ex fiancée, when she was in the company of Sarah O’Hare. The princess had been photographed in the company of Sarah O’Hare and I think that led to the confusion. Of course you're right, they should have noticed a difference between the statuesque Kate and the stumpy little Boganson. If it were legally advisable to admit to the error, Woad-bod, of course I would. I can appreciate that the princess’s entrée into the DRF was on the basis of the feminine, eastern suburbs princess genetic makeup of Kate Fischer, who of course won Dolly model of the year in 1983 as a fifteen-year-old and a genetic fount of paragon of womanhood genes. I mean, it was a reasonable error: who could possibly have thought that a Nadia Comaneci look-alike could be the object of a sensitive crown prince's affections? In any case, that was then. I have made up for that with regular genetic insertions. Such is my lot. She has a vile temper and it's a trying procedure. Talk about a tongue-lashing! I prefer to keep my earpiece in, with Daisy haranguing me throughout. How come such a control freak as that Queen couldn't influence her son when it mattered. They make work all around.

Regarding this current “pregnancy”, the princess was very specific that she would accept nothing less than a girl child, but there are no guarantees for these things with the host’s hormonal levels. Please have our assurances that Dr. Feldman is standing by to make some more surgical manipulations in order to attempt to create some lady parts in this latest zygote. With any luck there might be both - then they can choose whether it's worth risking a girl identity. There's only so much science can do. Smart move of Frederik's I notice from the press, hedging his bets on the child's gender! He gets to choose AFTER the birth, most probably!

In the event that the baby is born biologically male, but with Schlomo’s Hollywood lady bits, well, the parents will be forced to make a choice: to raise the child as a sissy-boy like his papa, or as a chip off of mummy’s broad, stooped shoulders. In either case, I think they will be pleased with the petit presque-zizi we can fashion for the child. By the way, you and your clients should not be disappointed: this time I was more careful not to cross-pollinate the embryo again with the “mother’s” frozen gallstones.

Please also warn the crown princess that her desire for full and luxurious hair will come at a price. She needs to continue to stress to her hair stylist that the demi-wig from an unfortunate Romanian is for now the only way that can be achieved. The hormones with which she is being injected on a weekly basis, combined with the bromides she finishes off for Frederik, are too powerful and could easily result in further hair loss, alas, this hair loss will not be possible on the rest of her anatomy. We tried, believe me. The photos from Stockholm that you sent to us were absolutely revolting. You want that I should give you the name of our depilatory specialist colleague for consultation after emminent release from hospital? My sources tell me that there was an unfortunate incident with an Aussie-accented Danish thug, but that the prognosis is good.

Please note that my office will be closed from the first night of Hannukah through the New Year. Please plan accordingly. If they need me at the end of their second Australian tour, I will not be available. My cousin Mortie has warned me against the taste of a Tasmanian bagel.

Yours truly,

Yehudi

It's a Bogan, Bogan, Bogan, Bogan World

Prince Frederik thought bubble:

Can't wait to go home and play all these games with the kids!!! Oh, man!! First I'll take a little dip into the walk-in humidor and see if it needs dusting up, hehe! Then I'll be ready to chill out and get my game on, oh boy!! Then maybe we can go jump on the trampoline!! Oh, please, I hope so!! I hope those gold bracelets I bought Mary will put her in a good mood so she'll let us go outside and jump!! Oh, please, please!! Wha hae!!

Alex Stephens' thought bubble:

Where the hell are my shoes?

Erin Stephens' thought bubble:

I am looking SO COOL with Auntie Mary's hot pink lycra tank top on! I am SO GLAD she let me have it. Mummy said she was purging her closet and said that this was her star making outfit. Omg, I so hope that means that if I wear it and get photographed in it like Auntie Mary that I'll find a weakling prince with mother issues that I can boss around, too!!!

Kate Stephens' thought bubble:

I love walking around in my pajamas. They're so comfy and make moving from the bed to the shops to the trampoline that much easier. Plus I don't bother with my hair for extra time for fun. Auntie Mary sure does teach us great things like how to be lazy and let others do for you.

Princess Mary thought bubble:

Hey, kid, HEY, look at ME!! Why don't you ever LOOK AT ME!!! LOOKER ME, GODDAMNIT!! Jesus, I know I don't spend that much time with you, but it's not like we just met, for pete's sake. Christ almighty this kid weighs a freaking TON! What in the hell does she feed you!? You're a freaking butterball pumpkin-head. Man, you look like the Pictish side of the family. That ain't gonna win you any fashion mag covers, babe, but Rob Roy says it's perfect for retaining Boganson tribal magic. Even your little baby chompers are coming in all crazy crooked. They'd better work some Pictish magic because I don't want to get blamed for your ugliness. It's bad enough that I inadvertantly let the side down when I'm home and show off the real me. Now, looker me, dammit!!

Prince Christian's thought bubble:

Do you see this? Are you getting this on film? I want all of you to take as many photos as you can because I want this shit on record. Do you hear how my "mother" talks to me? Do you HEAR THIS? Can you believe it? I swear to god, ever since I left the de-yellowing incubator she has been like this. I think Far's onto something with all the whiskey. Helloo, couldja BRING IT DOWN A NOTCH? Jesus, do you not think my ears are developed yet? I can HEAR, ok? And unfortunately I can see the world pretty clearly now and let me tell you, the sights at Aunt Jane's house are pretty bizarro. Are you all watching through the glass? Can you believe it? White powder everywhere. And if Far isn't playing with me and my cousins, he's coming up with a new excuse to split and meet with Uncle John's bozo, loser friends. Can you believe my grandpappy's new teeth? Thanks a shitload, old man. Now mine have to be all fucked up. Nice. Aunt Jane's making "Nanny" Mette sick with the vegemite grilled cheese sandwiches and "Mummy" makes her cry by making her set up her personal camera equipment or leaving her alone in the house while we galavant around town for the locals. What a freaking circus. Makes hanging out with Daisy and grandpapa look that much more sane. Jeez, I'm so pissed I could kick a marsupial.

Jane Stephens:

"Mary, we can hear you. Just put him in the stroller. I know you've got a "dedicated mother" thing you've got to try and get out there, but I think Max was right. It's a hard sell. C'mon. Just put him in the stroller."

Stumpy

Thanks from the realtor

22 November 2006

To: Jane Stephens
From: Jinky Tuckerman

Dear Jane,

This is just a line to thank you for the opportunity to locate and modify a roomy, spacious home for your family's needs. Thank you for the offer of an advertising opportunity for us in exchange for a discount on the fee: alas, our marketing department is centralised and the Sydney office for some reason are not keen. We do apologise, that's out of our control. Your ideas were marvellous - and indeed, if we were able to give the go-ahead for orthodontic fixups for all of Mary's nieces and nephews for the barbecue footage (with Mary and Frederik superimposed) we certainly would have!

If you have any problems with the built-in extras (wall vacuum for extraneous hair-drop) don't hesitate to let me know. I'm sure this new abode with its specified "high ceilings" will be a wonderful change from your former brick one-level that so insufficiently did not allow for "light to enter in" (as opposed to "eyes to peer in" - we understand the ironic instructions completely, no worries).

It was no mean feat acquiring a house with a glass see-though foyer, floor-to-ceiling glass walls and aspects to several adjoining balconies while STILL enabling privacy for prep time, let me tell you! I guess I shouldn't have mentioned that to you! We DID say at the time that it's a contemporary design... and a very upmarket establishment for Hobart, but now that you've paid our fee I can let you know we were actually issued instructions from other quarters. That post-modern purply look with little curved embellishment over the porch is in fact an aesthetic circa 1988. We were instructed to ensure that nothing truly contemporary or upmarket was to be provided, and that "see-through is the driver". My instructor - whose identify was never given to me - had a strange, sing-song lilt to her voice and every so often dropped a side-line that took me by surprise, like "godamn that Jane how can I stop her AGEING and still let the LIGHT through, bad look for ME if she's an old CROW but I need that attention". I think, Jane (now that we have our fee), sibling rivalry is never sated, no matter HOW far up and down the ladder, poles apart, the sibs end up. (I know - my husband's sister Nancy Tuckerman was Jackie Kennedy's private secretary - but that's another story).

(There is a chapter of Attention Seekers Anonymous in Hobart, but that's outside my ken and in any case, Jane, now that we have our fee I can mention, I'm sure your family became aware of that a long time ago!)

I think it's terrific that the Danish Government paid for the privacy screens we've installed for you now that you comprehend that all that glass is NOT for your family's enjoyment, but a passing fancy for Tasmania's favourite daughter.

Remember the first Gulf War? The Kuwaitis on camera boasting they were eating just one chocolate from a box and throwing the rest away? Now you'll start to get the picture.

The cocaine humidor will need to be returned to my office after the visit - I've had a call from a Danish boat that's docking soon - they said they've been asked to acquire one, and they had been told to fetch it from me. But your youngest sister is not to be told. As you've discovered, we will go to any lengths for a prime client!

Thanks once again!

Yours sincerely,

Jinky
Account Manager, Westie Hobo-bart quartier

Mary arrives in Tassie; texts Markson

"Mette, take the spud, whydoncha, I've to get out the cellie and wave before we're out of shot. Go to Mor, Christian! Uuuhhh, that kid weighs a ton, what in the hell do you FEED him, Mette!?"

TO MAX MARKSON
FROM HRH MARY

OK, U R OFF THE HOOK 4 NOW. JUST GOT IN - ON THE TARMAC STILL. FRED LOOKS RESTED. BETTER BE. NICE TOUCH W STORY OF HIM POPPING INTO DELI LIKE AVERAGE JOE. HE LUVS THAT SHIT. JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF PHOTOGS HERE. FINALLY. U REALLY OWED ME BIG, BUT THINK U'VE MADE UP 4 IT. NO TICKER TAPE PARADE, BUT PLENTY OF OPPORTUNITY 4 "HAPPY REUNION" SHOTS 4 NOW - GOOD. ALSO MAKES MY WAVE LOOK SPONTANEOUS AS IF PEOPLE HAD FORMED A CROWD 2 SHOWER ME W LOVE. IMPLICATION: I CAN'T COME 2 THE FENCE 2 TAKE THEIR FLOWERS AND FRUIT TINGLES SINCE THIS IS PRIVATE VISIT HAHA. THANX FOR ELIMINATING FRUIT TINGLES FROM FURTHER TOURS. ENUF! NANNY DIDN'T GET MEMO, FORCED HER 2 LAFF AS IF WE'RE BIG HAPPY FAMILY. PLEASE ADD HER TO DIST. LIST.

GOOD IDEA LOADING THE PLANE MEL-HOB W MONARCHISTS. THEIR FAWNING MAKES 4 GOOD COPY. GOING STR8 TO JANES NEW SEE-THRU DIGS 4 FEW DAYS. NOTIFY ALL, BUT PICK ONE PAPER FOR EXCLUSIVE INTERVU THIS PM. NOTIFY THEM CANT ENTER DIGS. WE'RE 2 RETAIN MYSTERY. THANK GOD JANES MOVERS GOT LAST PIECE FURN OUT OF UGLY BRICK HOUSE IN TIME. DON'T CARE HOW MUCH CRAIG WAILS, LOW CEILINGS DO SUFFOCATE ONE. GUESS PATTY N SCOTT ARE TOO MAD I DON'T GET THEM NEW HOUSE 2. SUCK IT, GUYS. WHAT HAVE U DONE FOR ME LATELY, PATS?

DONT FORGET - SALAMANCA SQUARE 2-MORROW AT 2PM. MAKE SURE WE ARE PHOTO'D BUT CAN STILL MOVE FREELY. FRED PROMISES MORE REGULAR JOE CRAP. I'LL BE WEARING GOLD AND EURO TRASH CLOTHES. PS. SEND OVER 4 INCH HEELS - ANJA FORGOT TO PACK - DANGER IN GETTING TOO COMFY AT HOME AND SHOWING REEL BODY TYPE.

MAX - NO SHOTS OF ME WALKING UPHILL OR STRUGGLING WITH STROLLER. REMEMBER EDICT: NO LONGER HUMAN, NOW QUITE ROYAL. THEY EAT IT UP. PLUS, HARDER W-OUT DANISH PRESS SPECIAL ELONGATION LENSES 4 ME. LOOK IN-2 GETTING SOME OF THOSE.

HRH ME

Be-Weave it

Fra: Anja Nielsen stylebabe@ blindchic. dk
Til: Søren Hedegaard klipit@ weavemagik. dk
Sendt: 15. november 2006
Emne: Coordinate!!

GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!!! What the hell are you doing!?

Jeez, sorry, Søren. Guess who I've been staving off all morning? She kept yelling something about how that purple pencil skirt I sent her off to the cancer grieving seminar in yesterday brought out her rather substantial quadriceps. She didn't like it when I remarked that was a helluvan impossible task to mask them and I was TRYING MY BEST and it's not even my fault why don't you take it up with Yehudi whose hormonal formulas to get you preggers again did this so get out of my face with your spittle! Man, I'm starting to see why Frederik checks out so often and dives for the scotch. God, if she would only stop calling me fuckface!

But look, Søren, we really need to coordinate. I know I get no slack for sending Miss Thing out in n'importe quoi everyday, but it's in an effort to figure out if there is any look on the planet that would work on her. I mean, any culture, any climate, any era, any fabric, any fashion statement, loud, quiet or shrilling like the lady herself. Look, it's HARD. I've been doing this for nearly four years now and obviously NOTHING works, and I'm starting to worry that I'm running out of ideas and I can only recycle the crap she wore before she got to Europe so much. At least on those togs the fabric content is such that it has a half-life of like, a billion years. So her white tank tops, Hush Puppy low heels and jeans with the metre-long cuffs are going to outlive our grandkids and Armeggedon both. You can see what I'm up against. At least I was finally able to throw away that awful blue nylon rucksack she used to use as a purse.

It's bad enough Queen Rania goes out stylishly in the same suit my little missy insisted on wearing with a purple flower pot for her portrait unveiling. Looking like a dope I must add. Then some gorgeous Hollywood starlet gets photographed wearing what Mary insists on peacocking around in. Never mind that I've told Mary that their job is to wear an outfit hot off the seamstress's table, and her job is to look like she doesn't care. Then there's "that total looker me BITCH" in Spain as I'm contractually obligated to call the Princess of Asturias who rocks Mary's 4300 kroner Hugo Boss print better as a skirt. And last but not least, Caroline de Monaco - who gets it! - is seen in the Prada dress with blue flowers and looks a million times better than Sister Mary who insisted on the top with military hem and red flowers. Does she listen to my admonitions about her bull neck or lack of waist? Nooooooooooo. Go ahead and buy it Mary, you'll see! I mean, my hands are tied as far as damage control is concerned. I've already got the lady-in-waiting wearing every shade of gray in order to look like the church mouse when they're out and about, and then there you go with the righteous red hair dye, man!

So you can see how my around-the-world stylings for our girl are completely clashing with your insistance on the feathered "wings" and unkempt ends of your new cut for our girl. What's the obsession with the original Charlie's Angels? Yes, better Jaclyn Smith than Farrah Fawcett, but still! Mary's not going to age as well as those ladies, instead taking the Kate Jackson meets Vera de Milo route like her sisters. Look, I know you gave her hair extensions for the appearance of fullness that her lack of proper & self-produced pregnancy hormones won't provide. Good save. But it's a definite look and it's clashing with my attempts to tone down the iron thighs, hockey calves, wrestler torso and rugby biceps. AND she's been picking at them, which further complicates any attempt I may make to bring a patina of "ladylike elegance" to Herr Geldstein's favourite genetic accelerator. Did you get a load of her at the WHO conference? Up there on stage in a killer suit - thankyouverymuch - and trying desparately to replant the track and tuck it under the top layers so that the power of the suit is COMPLETELY NEGATED and she looks like a C-grade MTV "starlet". Look, ixnay on the 'stensions, Søren, or you've GOT to at LEAST change out her shampoo. She gives Ziggy a run for the money in the scratching department. And just as we've gotten her to stop playing with the presque-zizi at state banquets. Baby steps.

Please know that I sympathise with you. You're up against a LOT. You've got to tone down the chinny chin chin, the new modified ski jump, the unsynchronised eyeballs, the saggy eye lids, the Adam's apple and the pursed lips, but at least you're not her make-up artist! So we're both up between a rock and a hard place, but could you at the minimum help me out and at least get a better glue for the damn weave? Why not just super-high doses of Rograine, or has Yehudi exempted that until the child's gender is determined? I'm hopeful too that he can somehow pull a rabbit out of a hat and produce a real girl child! Though I have my doubts - did you see Mary manhandle that bottle of pop when they were at the EU in Brussels? Surely that wasn't the only freebie that they were both going on and on about receiving down there?

Speaking of being man-handled, how is the epilatory consultant doing? I heard she was finally checked out of hospital. Have the bruises gone away? How's her neck? Gosh, I hope there's no permanent scarring. I'm still surprised Mary erupted that way, but I suppose an intervention for extraneous hair is a pretty embarrassing thing to be confronted with. Didn't she see the photos from Stockholm? I was too scared to show her, but surely someone did? You're the hair guy, why didn't you do it? Frederik did warn us she'd act like that, but I really thought what we organised was the right thing to do, didn't you? I must say though, it was fascinating seeing her take that woman in an impressive adductor chokehold just like the crown prince said she did to him back at her place during the Olympics. Wouldn't trade having seen that sight for the world!

Burn this.

Anja

Sllllluuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrppp

John Donaldson thought bubble:

Ay, I just luv flashin' me new set of chompers at all these big shots 'ere at the American Ambassador's Fouurth of Jul-aye party! Admit it mates, I look like Sean fucking Connery, don' I? Screuw Rob Roy Woad-bod and his stoopid theories about how the Boganson magic is now compromised with me new smile. Ah ate yer letter, man, that's wut I think uf it! Ay, all this free food! And this corn on the cob is no problem for me with these veneers! Can't wait to shine these ivories in the face of some folk who could set me and the missus up after this gig with Copenhagen U is up. I bouught Suse a new necklace an me a new tie so we'd look the part to represent your product, mister rich, American corporate pirrrrate. Ay!

Susan Moody thought bubble:

hic I just love these martoonis! Happy Birthday, Canada!