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How can I return to Farmfoods after this?
(Daily Record Via Thomson Dialog NewsEdge)I'D love to live the high life. I mean, I'm happy enough with a bag of chips and a DVD, but what I really want to do is kick bellboys and ramraid Tiffany's in my limo.
I want Harvey Nicks to shut the shop so I can fill up on Crme DeMer and the latest designer handbags in peace.
Then I want to fly in my (fake) fur-lined private jet to a six-star hotel, where I will have the world's most expensive sandwich, a concoction featuring Japanese beef, black truffles and foie gras that costs pounds 85.
After that I'll send for the $10,000 Martini, an outrageous drink offered by the Algonquin in New York, which involves a straight-up shot of gin and vermouth with a twist - a massive diamond floating at the bottom.
And who cares if I swallow it? I'll be so rich I'll be able to pay someone to give me a colonoscopy at a top clinic in Switzerland, where they'll also suck the fat from my thighs and give me a face like Mischa Barton.
Obviously I'm about as posh as Janice Batters by eating a battered sausage in the bookie's. I can only stretch to a pint of Stella and a packet of Nobby's, and my designer handbag is plastic and has 'Farmfoods' written on it.
But a girl can dream, and occasionally I get to sample a taste of how the other half live.
The other day I had to go down to London to meet some media types.
This hardly ever happens, but I'd managed to arrange what sounded like a rather fabulous swirl of activity - lunch with my agent, dahling, a meeting with some TV people, afternoon tea with my publishing editor and dinner with friends at a private club. Posh or what?
The only problem was, I had to pay my own travel expenses. So instead of the private jet I had to fly on Ryanair, where an upgrade means putting you in the seat nearest the emergency exit.
Wedged between a bunch of neds in matching tracksuits and a woman with bad breath, I managed to survive by reading an article about the terrible life of Jade Goody.
As I staggered down the steps in the freezing wind, I tried to pretend I was Sophia Loren, but it was no good.
Still, I reckoned lunch with my agent would prove to be a glamorous affair. Unfortunately, though, I was running short of time, so we had to eat at a depressing caf in Liverpool Street Station, next to some pigeon poo and a pillar. After that I dashed off to meet the TV people, who gave me a glass of water. It was not the fabulous odyssey I'd anticipated. Where was my three-course meal at Gordon Ramsay's gaff?
But there was still time, and when I arrived at my next meeting I hit the jackpot. It was a palace, with trendy mismatched chairs and lamps and tiny cakes that cost a fiver each. And the toilet had a DIAMANTE FLUSH. I was so beside myself I was in there for ages, fondling the black sparkly walls and stroking the crystal toilet roll holder. It was amazing!
Ah, I was truly living now, lording it up in London town. I skipped off to the private club, which was hidden down a tiny lane and very exclusive.
My friend Karen knew all the camp waiters, and soon we were settling in with a bottle of Pinot Grigio, some gourmet delights and sparkling conversation. Then I turned round.
Behind me was none other than Anita Dobson! Angie from EastEnders. The woman who launched a thousand perms. I realised I'd truly arrived amongst the privileged few. Somebody pinch me!
Anyway, there's no going back now. How can I return to Ryanair and Farmfoods after that? So I've got a plan. I'm moving into the sparkly toilet, using the money from the sale of my flat to buy a membership to the private club, and hanging out with Anita until she lends me the money to buy an pounds 85 sandwich.
I wonder if it comes with chips?
l.sweet@dailyrecord.co.uk
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