Tea With the Queen
After yesterday’s post, in which I worried needlessly about what to wear to tea with the Queen – and in other, entirely fictional scenarios – I spent far too much time thinking about it, and I figured maybe something like this?
And if she asked me where I got my pearls, I’d say, “Why, New Look, ma’am. They were two for a tenner! Doesn’t everyone get one’s pearls in New Look?”*
(*I would actually be lying about this, though, because to be honest, one can’t remember where one got one’s pearls. One is confident it was from one of the brands one’s parents would describe as “El Cheapo”, though. One will stop speaking like this now, for reals.)
And if she asked me where I got my little jacket/cardigan thing, I would say, “Why, ALSO New Look!” Then I would wink in a way that was supposed to be winning, and a little bit cheeky-in-a-cute-way, but which would actually just make me look like I had a tic.
If she asked me where I got my shoes, though, I would say, “Coo, luvaduck, you’re a curious one, aintchya?” Because in this particular scenario, I would obviously be Eliza Doolittle. Look, it’s MY imaginary life, I get to choose, OK? I would look like Eliza Doolittle too. (The Audrey Hepburn version, I mean. Not the English singer, although she is also very nice.) And I would be riding a magic pony. OK, I’ll stop now…
(Oh, Kurt Geiger, by the way.)
Want to see something scary?
I have a CLAW HAND. Seriously, it was in almost every photo. I can’t seem to take a photo without it. I’m scared that it’ll try to kill me while I sleep or something. And then I’ll never get to have tea with the Queen…