The Tattler

It hasn’t exactly been the most exciting week. Father’s still seething; the man can hold a grudge. He’s cut off my credit with all the decent Savile Row tailors and banned me from the Urban Retreat at Harrods. Whenever I’ve been feeling flushed recently I pop off for the La Mer treatment. The things they can do with pure diamond dust! But even that’s been taken from me. Sometimes I wonder if Papa has a soul.

I contacted Mother yesterday to complain. I don’t think she recognised my voice; she claimed it was the heavy waves making such a racket although I wonder how much heavy wind affects a 47-metre yacht anchored in a Monégasque port. She says she’s unhappy. She’s a naturalised citizen there now and finds it terribly difficult to sneak into Le Grand Casino de Monte Carlo. She says the doormen recognise all her disguises and have started confiscating her fake passports. She tells me she’s considering getting a divorce and reinstating herself as British, just so she can soak up that Garnier style once again. That kind of thing requires a lot of thought, I sigh, and is best not resolved on a gin-soaked empty stomach.

I’ve been feeling a bit low. This odorous supervisor of mine has been telling me off. Apparently I’m unmotivated. In our last meeting he raised his voice and said I was in imminent danger of being sent down and that I was, I quote, immanently incorrigible. I told him that he used ‘imminent’ in the wrong sense – this didn’t go down very well. I admit feeling a little embarrassed when I checked it out on the web later that afternoon. In any case, somewhere there, in some interstitial place between his bellowing and spitting, I definitely caught an edge of attraction. He was so close to me that I could sense his rocketing hardness beneath his mildew cords. I realised at that moment that I had him. ‘Punish me’, I shouted. And whipping off my carefully ironed trousers, I presented my pert little bottom. I got the idea from the Fassbender film. And spank me he did. I was surprised how much I liked it. It wasn’t too hard, on account of the Prof suffering from Dupuytren’s contracture… I tried to pronounce a hobble as I walked out with a 72 on my latest essay.