Monday, January 25, 2010
Oh dear. I have a shameful secret. A truly hideous secret life, guaranteed to shock all fashionable players.
My name is Clare Press and I am a horoscope addict. Or should that be "an horoscope" addict? I do so love the affected way Lord Peter Wimsey in the Dorothy L. Sayers novels says "an hotel". "Take me to an hotel!" "Read me out an horo'scope!" Why don't we still talk like that? And why don't we go in for the crisp BBC English-style rolling of the rrrrrs anymore? Why is that deemed so verrreh, verreh old-fashioned?
Sometimes I hate modern stuff and truly wish I were living in a 1930s detective novel - although not dying in one, please. My stars couldn't help me out of that one.
So what form does this verrreh, verreh embarrassing habit take? The answer is this: I not only devour the cruddy Stars pages of the tabloids each day in search of hints on how to get through life; I also subscribe to Jonathan Cainer's Five Star Service, the one where he tells you, o'er the internet, about your destiny for the week in his dreamy, therapist tones.
It's pathetic, I know, but also oddly comforting. Cainer just cooed that there is "no such thing as a situation which is ever going to totally satisfy every requirement and fulfill every need. There will always be something we can find fault with"...but apparently that's not where my focus and concentration should be.
Good-oh! Note to self: Stop being a whingeing bitch, then. Sound advice Mister Cainer. Chic advice too. Now take me to an hotel!
Posted by Mrs Press at 12:04 AM