What’s all this fuss about local bodies? I’m not a fan of local bodies. I much prefer foreign bodies. Especially if they belong to young women from the British aristocracy. Like the Rt Hon Fruity Fitztightly and Lady Lucinda Lampost. And Georgiana Knatchbull-Terrier. And the divorced Duchess of Dishwater.
When I’m in London, I behave just like a British aristocrat. For starters, I always stay at Ormond Lodge, my ex-mother-in-law Lady Annabel Goldsmith’s stately home in Ham (taubah, taubah), Surrey. I am always received at Heathrow by a old fan; we drive to Ormond Lodge in his black Bentley. He’s at the driving wheel and I sit at the back as if I were His Lordship and he my lowly chauffeur. My fan’s name is Javeed but I call him Jeeves.
Lady Annabel’s always waiting for me at the front door wearing a large black hat with cream ostrich feathers and a Hartnell frock. Invariably, she tilts her large black hat down and glares at me through her Harry Potter glasses. We share an awkward moment and then Lady Annabel bluntly asks, “how’re you faring with that new wife of yours?” I mutter something under my breath and she snaps, “Good heavens man! Speak up!”
I then shuffle into Ormond Lodge and make straight for the attic where there’s a tiny single bed for me, stuck under the eaves. Since the boys are quite busy doing their own thing, I spend most of my time at Ormond Lodge catching up on the world’s most famous British soap, Downton Abbey. I love the heroine, Lady Mary; she’s my type of gal. She’s very good at moping about and looking beautiful. She suffers from that thing rich kids get when they’re unhappy and unfulfilled because they’ve never had to work for anything. I’m always appalled by the fact that millions of Pakistanis haven’t seen Downton Abbey, nor are they likely to. This is another national tragedy and it’s all Nawaz Sharif’s fault.
As I sit staring at the rain through the window, my cerebral vortex resounds with Louis Armstrong’s gravely voice, “What a Wonderful World” …
Im the Dim