I must give you some background on Herbert Von Wolfswinkle. As human beings, we are programmed to make sense of our surroundings and this puzzle called life. Von Wolfswinkle was, is, one of those riddles that takes some working out.
His career in the Wolfswinkle family bank was unremarkable prior to the banking collapse of 2008. For the first 50 years of his life he was a great disappointment to his father. Whilst other banks flourished in the devil-may-care years of government, corporate, and private borrowing, the Bank of Wolfswinkle stuck to old fashioned ideas of financial rectitude and the quaint idea that they should only loan, more or less, money which they actually had access to. Qualification for a Wolfswinkle corporate loan was an arduous process which few companies could complete.
One of the rare exceptions was Monsaint Medical Instruments, whose then chief executive, Melody Bigger, wove her spell on Herbert and got him to put his hand in his substantial trouser pocket. This largesse financed Monsaint's rapid expansion in the nineties.
But I digress. When the collapse happened and governments surveyed the smouldering remains of the the banking system, there, standing amongst the ruins, intact and solvent, was the Bank of Wolfswinkle. It's eponymous chairman was suddenly a hero for being tight and not going bust.
As banking contagion spread and threatened the collapse of the politicians' dream of a prosperous, united Europe, Von Wolfswinkle was propelled into a significant post in the European Central Bank. His role was to put some steel into the Eurobonds committee and make sure that Germany did not foot the entire bill for Greek, Italian, Spanish, and Irish pensions. He was flattered and took to his new role like a duck to water.
Unfortunately, as many in similar positions have found, his tireless civic duty placed a strain on his long marriage to Francine Beauregard Von Wolfswinkle. Even liberal use of Viagra could not repair marital relations. They came to an accommodation. He would keep quiet about her affair with the handsome head of the Federation of European football, and she would stand resolutely and publicly at his side whilst he indulged his voyeurism with intelligent and attractive young women. But Francine, a severe woman, did not believe in equality. Whilst she was allowed every Frenchwoman's right to have once-fit footballer in her bed, he was allowed only to look, not touch.
I did say it was a puzzle.
Saturday, 27 April 2013
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
The Road to S & G.
When I first knew Caroline she was naturally striking. She only had to throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to look as sexy as hell. We didn't bother with an expensive wedding; she probably spent less than an hour getting ready for our big day, or big half-hour, at Totnes registry office near her mother's house in Devon.
But that week with Melody Bigger in Spain changed her in many ways. She had always been in awe of Melody, but from a distance. Then, when Melody suddenly stepped down from CEO and offered to train up promising new executives, Caroline had the chance to absorb the Bigger management philosophy from close up. It was like an infatuation. Caroline wanted to be near Melody all the time, wanted Melody to notice her. She had to force herself not to keep putting her hand up in the group sessions.
One of the many stupid yet kind-of-true things Melody preached was that if you wanted to have the part, you had to be the part. You had to already have the polish and gravitas, the expensive clothes and shoes. Melody's theory was that inner confidence came from control underwear and steel capped high heels. You had to dress, she said, from the bottom up and from the inside out.
The part they were all going for was Monsaint's new head of European operations. It was going to be a board level post, an express route to the top of the greasy pole. The men in the group interpreted Melody's advice as: change your underwear, especially if you might get lucky; rip the packaging on a new shirt at least once a week; comb your hair, if you have any; and wear shoes that don't need cleaning. Melody also instructed the men in the correct expression to carry on their faces. She made them change from 'what the hell is going on in this stupid company' to 'I can see the future, and it's fabulous.'
Antonia, a PR expert, had long ago incorporated Melody's techniques into her wardrobe. But Caroline had always maintained that the finance department was only interested in numbers and it didn't matter what you looked like as long as the accounts told a good story. Then she fell in love, sort of, with Melody and swallowed the whole package. For Caroline, it was a revelation - now she knew how to cultivate and exercise power. She started making more effort with her sub-structure, her shoes, hair, and make-up. Some people, me included, suddenly found her quite intimidating. It was like she had changed into a different person. Perhaps she had.
Unfortunately, the revelation occurred not on the road to Damascus, but on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah.
But that week with Melody Bigger in Spain changed her in many ways. She had always been in awe of Melody, but from a distance. Then, when Melody suddenly stepped down from CEO and offered to train up promising new executives, Caroline had the chance to absorb the Bigger management philosophy from close up. It was like an infatuation. Caroline wanted to be near Melody all the time, wanted Melody to notice her. She had to force herself not to keep putting her hand up in the group sessions.
One of the many stupid yet kind-of-true things Melody preached was that if you wanted to have the part, you had to be the part. You had to already have the polish and gravitas, the expensive clothes and shoes. Melody's theory was that inner confidence came from control underwear and steel capped high heels. You had to dress, she said, from the bottom up and from the inside out.
The part they were all going for was Monsaint's new head of European operations. It was going to be a board level post, an express route to the top of the greasy pole. The men in the group interpreted Melody's advice as: change your underwear, especially if you might get lucky; rip the packaging on a new shirt at least once a week; comb your hair, if you have any; and wear shoes that don't need cleaning. Melody also instructed the men in the correct expression to carry on their faces. She made them change from 'what the hell is going on in this stupid company' to 'I can see the future, and it's fabulous.'
Antonia, a PR expert, had long ago incorporated Melody's techniques into her wardrobe. But Caroline had always maintained that the finance department was only interested in numbers and it didn't matter what you looked like as long as the accounts told a good story. Then she fell in love, sort of, with Melody and swallowed the whole package. For Caroline, it was a revelation - now she knew how to cultivate and exercise power. She started making more effort with her sub-structure, her shoes, hair, and make-up. Some people, me included, suddenly found her quite intimidating. It was like she had changed into a different person. Perhaps she had.
Unfortunately, the revelation occurred not on the road to Damascus, but on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah.
Friday, 19 April 2013
Recovering the thread (2)
7. Guest: Antonia Anderson. Some of Caroline's colleagues decide on a night out as a break from the management development course.
It was hard work, yes, but we had so much fun in the sun. Clive had an App on his phone which listed the top ten bars in Allucano. One of them ran an amateur pole dancing competition on Thursday nights so we decided to go along for a laugh... It was difficult to persuade Caroline to come along to Spanish Knights, but something changed her mind.
8. How did we meet? The romantic story of how Caroline and I first got together.
Caroline has great red hair and has no need to wear a wig, but when we had got beyond coffee in Neros, a drink in All Bar One, and the latest Bond film at the Odeon Leicester Square, I asked her about the wig thing. She changed the subject. We probed each other politely and discovered we were incompatible. Even our lies were incompatible. I said we should sue the agency to get our money back and she was up for that.
9. Chemistry. We discover that Melody and Sid have history.
Sex had brought Sid and Melody together when they were mere amateurs in criminal endeavour. Melody was learning her trade as a dominatrix and madame. Sid was experimenting with corrupting his friends with loose women before moving on to corrupting entire multi-national corporations with thousands of employees. Sid's motto was on the lines of 'If only everything in life was as reliable as a loose woman...'
10. Uninvited Guest. You should never give anyone your password. Antonia explains how she persuaded Caroline to go the amateur strip show.
'You need some unsuitable clothes to go with those unsuitable shoes,' I said. 'Then you'll feel right.'
So I helped Caroline go through my underwear, like it was an Anne Summers party. I chose her a diaphanous blue set because I knew they were the only ones that would actually fit her. I am quite slight. C thought it was a disadvantage that they had holes in crucial places, like the ones Robert had tried to make her buy from Agent Provocateur. I said, no, it's an advantage because you won't need to acually take them off.
11. Spanish Knights. Sid whiles away time in prison by hacking into my blog and explaining how Caroline won the strip competition.
As a service to the local community and to boost tourism, I allowed my facilities to be used on Thursday nights for amateur theatrics and, if I may go so far as to use the word, burlesque. My generosity extended to giving a token prize of two hundred euro to the woman who achieved the greatest popularity from the attentive audience. Most weeks the prize was awarded to a most athletic local woman, Inocenta, who happened to be the daughter of the chief of police.
12. The Ironing Lady. Caroline describes an early meeting with German banker, Herbert Von Wolfswinkle.
'Of course, it looks better with high heels,' she said, standing on tip-toe and brandishing the iron to demonstrate.
'I still don't understand why you agreed to let him photograph you in the shopping centre,' I said. 'Didn't you think it was a bit weird? With him being a well-known banker?'
'He was very discreet and kept his distance. He had one of those big lenses.'
13. Justin Time Associates. Justin describes some work he did for a disfunctional ECB Eurobonds committee.
Justin said that trying to teach emotional intelligence to the ECB committee was like trying to teach chess to two year olds. He did some personality profiling on the members to get them to have some insight. He was so shocked by Von Wolfswinkle's score on the questionnaire that he had to fiddle the figures to avoid embarrassing him in front of Ireland and Italy.
...So that brings us up to date. I hope it is all clear now. If not, there may soon be an opportunity to get the facts, and nothing but the facts, through the book of these events entitled Shameless Ambition. Melody Bigger has contravened our confidentiality agreement and unless she withdraws all her allegations in the next few days I shall be forced to publish despite the embarrassment that will cause to a number of people, Caroline and myself included. A cover has been prepared. You see, Melody, I am deadly serious.
It was hard work, yes, but we had so much fun in the sun. Clive had an App on his phone which listed the top ten bars in Allucano. One of them ran an amateur pole dancing competition on Thursday nights so we decided to go along for a laugh... It was difficult to persuade Caroline to come along to Spanish Knights, but something changed her mind.
8. How did we meet? The romantic story of how Caroline and I first got together.
Caroline has great red hair and has no need to wear a wig, but when we had got beyond coffee in Neros, a drink in All Bar One, and the latest Bond film at the Odeon Leicester Square, I asked her about the wig thing. She changed the subject. We probed each other politely and discovered we were incompatible. Even our lies were incompatible. I said we should sue the agency to get our money back and she was up for that.
9. Chemistry. We discover that Melody and Sid have history.
Sex had brought Sid and Melody together when they were mere amateurs in criminal endeavour. Melody was learning her trade as a dominatrix and madame. Sid was experimenting with corrupting his friends with loose women before moving on to corrupting entire multi-national corporations with thousands of employees. Sid's motto was on the lines of 'If only everything in life was as reliable as a loose woman...'
10. Uninvited Guest. You should never give anyone your password. Antonia explains how she persuaded Caroline to go the amateur strip show.
'You need some unsuitable clothes to go with those unsuitable shoes,' I said. 'Then you'll feel right.'
So I helped Caroline go through my underwear, like it was an Anne Summers party. I chose her a diaphanous blue set because I knew they were the only ones that would actually fit her. I am quite slight. C thought it was a disadvantage that they had holes in crucial places, like the ones Robert had tried to make her buy from Agent Provocateur. I said, no, it's an advantage because you won't need to acually take them off.
11. Spanish Knights. Sid whiles away time in prison by hacking into my blog and explaining how Caroline won the strip competition.
As a service to the local community and to boost tourism, I allowed my facilities to be used on Thursday nights for amateur theatrics and, if I may go so far as to use the word, burlesque. My generosity extended to giving a token prize of two hundred euro to the woman who achieved the greatest popularity from the attentive audience. Most weeks the prize was awarded to a most athletic local woman, Inocenta, who happened to be the daughter of the chief of police.
12. The Ironing Lady. Caroline describes an early meeting with German banker, Herbert Von Wolfswinkle.
'Of course, it looks better with high heels,' she said, standing on tip-toe and brandishing the iron to demonstrate.
'I still don't understand why you agreed to let him photograph you in the shopping centre,' I said. 'Didn't you think it was a bit weird? With him being a well-known banker?'
'He was very discreet and kept his distance. He had one of those big lenses.'
13. Justin Time Associates. Justin describes some work he did for a disfunctional ECB Eurobonds committee.
Justin said that trying to teach emotional intelligence to the ECB committee was like trying to teach chess to two year olds. He did some personality profiling on the members to get them to have some insight. He was so shocked by Von Wolfswinkle's score on the questionnaire that he had to fiddle the figures to avoid embarrassing him in front of Ireland and Italy.
...So that brings us up to date. I hope it is all clear now. If not, there may soon be an opportunity to get the facts, and nothing but the facts, through the book of these events entitled Shameless Ambition. Melody Bigger has contravened our confidentiality agreement and unless she withdraws all her allegations in the next few days I shall be forced to publish despite the embarrassment that will cause to a number of people, Caroline and myself included. A cover has been prepared. You see, Melody, I am deadly serious.
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Recovering the thread (1)
A reader writes:
I have tried to print off your blog but I think there is something amiss with my printer-most of it is covered in bright pink! Is it really just a lurid warning?
Yes, it is. But the reader in question was quite legitimately trying to find out what on earth is going on, having started by reading Post Thirteen. I wish I knew. The trouble and delight of blogs is that the thread disappears like the wake of a ship. It's like trying to read a biography backwards.
So for new recruits, to help get things straight in my own mind, and to re-assert my voice over the cacophony of unauthorised guest bloggers, here is the story so far (oh, that it was just a story...) Forwards, not backwards.
Robert Fanshaw is not my real name. Probably. If you stick with my blog for a while you'll see why I would want to create some doubt.My wife, however, really is called Caroline. She appears in the title of my blog because she leads a more interesting life than I do....
2. Motivation. Caroline goes on a management development course with colleagues in Spain.
Caroline, well she's shapely, exotic and mysterious, though I'd be careful before I called her shapely to her face. Sometimes such comments are misunderstood. And after three years being married, mystery can be forgotten. It used to be the seven year itch, now it's three. In the modern world, everything has accelerated, not just broadband speeds.
3. Skinny-dip. They learn some mumbo-jumbo about inner motivation and desire from course leader Melody Bigger.
Caroline told friend and colleague Antonia things that women tell women, things she thinks about but doesn't usually speak about. Antonia said she should go for it, so after a few glasses of wine before, with, and after dinner, Caroline waited until everyone had gone to bed, stripped off, and tiptoed down to the pool. The water, she said, was lovely and warm. The stars shone brightly above the hotel courtyard. She closed her eyes and acted out her secret desire. She thought no one was watching. But there was...
4. Marathon or sprint? Insomniac Alistair, Head of R&D, sees Caroline in the pool and decides she might be the right woman to help him with a personal problem.
Caroline realised the risk she was taking and decided to run back to the the privacy of her room. She walked up the shallow end steps of the pool, emerging like a Botticelli Venus with a shake of her long red hair. Alistair saw the key card drop out of her rolled-up towel. Like a true gentleman, he scooped up the card and set off up the marble stairs after her, following the wet footprints which led to C's room.
5. Reputation. Caroline realises her reputation is at risk and embarks on a damage limitation exercise.
When Alistair admitted that he had seen her, and openly admired her breast stroke, Caroline was devastated. It didn't take much to imagine the knowing looks of her colleagues in the finance department if Alistair told them what he had seen. She decided to follow Melody Bigger's second piece of advice on the protection of reputation: 'If someone has got something on you, make sure you get something on them.'
6. Leadership potential. Sid Schweinsteiger, working for Melody, runs an orienteering exercise for the company executives in the mountains.
It became obvious after the first two days of the course that there was another agenda. Monsaint, the medical instruments company, was looking for the high-flyer who was best suited to setting up their new operation in the heart of Europe. The job would have a grandiose title and be dangled as a stepping stone to better things. Once this became known, the gloves were off. Everyone wanted to shine...
Recovering the thread continues next time
I have tried to print off your blog but I think there is something amiss with my printer-most of it is covered in bright pink! Is it really just a lurid warning?
Yes, it is. But the reader in question was quite legitimately trying to find out what on earth is going on, having started by reading Post Thirteen. I wish I knew. The trouble and delight of blogs is that the thread disappears like the wake of a ship. It's like trying to read a biography backwards.
So for new recruits, to help get things straight in my own mind, and to re-assert my voice over the cacophony of unauthorised guest bloggers, here is the story so far (oh, that it was just a story...) Forwards, not backwards.
Robert Fanshaw is not my real name. Probably. If you stick with my blog for a while you'll see why I would want to create some doubt.My wife, however, really is called Caroline. She appears in the title of my blog because she leads a more interesting life than I do....
2. Motivation. Caroline goes on a management development course with colleagues in Spain.
Caroline, well she's shapely, exotic and mysterious, though I'd be careful before I called her shapely to her face. Sometimes such comments are misunderstood. And after three years being married, mystery can be forgotten. It used to be the seven year itch, now it's three. In the modern world, everything has accelerated, not just broadband speeds.
3. Skinny-dip. They learn some mumbo-jumbo about inner motivation and desire from course leader Melody Bigger.
Caroline told friend and colleague Antonia things that women tell women, things she thinks about but doesn't usually speak about. Antonia said she should go for it, so after a few glasses of wine before, with, and after dinner, Caroline waited until everyone had gone to bed, stripped off, and tiptoed down to the pool. The water, she said, was lovely and warm. The stars shone brightly above the hotel courtyard. She closed her eyes and acted out her secret desire. She thought no one was watching. But there was...
4. Marathon or sprint? Insomniac Alistair, Head of R&D, sees Caroline in the pool and decides she might be the right woman to help him with a personal problem.
Caroline realised the risk she was taking and decided to run back to the the privacy of her room. She walked up the shallow end steps of the pool, emerging like a Botticelli Venus with a shake of her long red hair. Alistair saw the key card drop out of her rolled-up towel. Like a true gentleman, he scooped up the card and set off up the marble stairs after her, following the wet footprints which led to C's room.
5. Reputation. Caroline realises her reputation is at risk and embarks on a damage limitation exercise.
When Alistair admitted that he had seen her, and openly admired her breast stroke, Caroline was devastated. It didn't take much to imagine the knowing looks of her colleagues in the finance department if Alistair told them what he had seen. She decided to follow Melody Bigger's second piece of advice on the protection of reputation: 'If someone has got something on you, make sure you get something on them.'
6. Leadership potential. Sid Schweinsteiger, working for Melody, runs an orienteering exercise for the company executives in the mountains.
It became obvious after the first two days of the course that there was another agenda. Monsaint, the medical instruments company, was looking for the high-flyer who was best suited to setting up their new operation in the heart of Europe. The job would have a grandiose title and be dangled as a stepping stone to better things. Once this became known, the gloves were off. Everyone wanted to shine...
Recovering the thread continues next time
Saturday, 13 April 2013
Justin Time Associates
Justin rang me the other day and asked if I would give him a mention. He's always keen to raise the profile of his management development business, though most of his work comes via word-of-mouth.
He was in Frankfurt at the same time as Caroline, and met her on the top floor of the Bullenmarkt Bar and Bistro near the financial district. The bar was arranged on class lines. The hoi polloi were allowed past the bouncers into the ground floor bar; the middle classes into the expensive bistro on the first floor; and the european elite - footballers, bankers, and businesspeople - into the invitation only functions on the top floor.
Sid had obtained an invitation for Caroline because he knew Von Wolfswinkle was in town, along with the rest of his ECB committee. They were deliberating the merits of Eurobonds. Justin was actually called in to try and prevent the committee members falling out publicly. There was a slight divergence of opinion between representatives from northern and southern Europe over the principle of sharing debt.
Justin's big thing is emotional intelligence. The theory is that some people, often those most successful in their respective spheres, lack empathy. Problems are caused when they misunderstand the messages given out by others. Justin said that trying to teach emotional intelligence to the ECB committee was like trying to teach chess to two year olds. He did some personality profiling on the members to get them to have some insight. He was so shocked by Von Wolfswinkle's score on the questionnaire that he had to fiddle the figures to avoid embarrassing him in front of Ireland and Italy.
The committee members were all on the top floor, relaxing with canapes and champagne after a hard day's eurobonding. Justin saw Caroline fiddling with her phone and introduced himself, claiming to have done some work for Monsaint when Melody was still the chief exec. Caroline said she was hoping to meet Von Wolfswinkle because his bank had helped with Monsaint's expansion programme in the nineties. Justin grabbed another glass of champagne and squeezed Caroline in between two blond interns who were hanging on VW's every word.
'Herbie, can I introduce my very dear friend, Caroline Fanshaw. I did some work on her team last year. Superstars, every one of them.' Caroline smiled at his brazen lie.They exchanged small talk, and VW insisted he must take her out to dinner one night if she was new to the city. Introductions made, VW headed off after the blond interns who had been gaining political insights from a tall grey-haired man.
'Wow, you were a great hit with Herbie,' said Justin. 'Did you see him stare at your boobs?' Caroline chided Justin for being so personal, but she was wearing a long blue dress, cut low at the front, allowing a glimpse of unnecessarily expensive underwear. The new clothes had been bought with the card provided by Sid for any expenses incurred whilst in Frankfurt.
'Just be careful,' said Justin. 'That man has serious issues. He's not a happy camper-van man.'
He was in Frankfurt at the same time as Caroline, and met her on the top floor of the Bullenmarkt Bar and Bistro near the financial district. The bar was arranged on class lines. The hoi polloi were allowed past the bouncers into the ground floor bar; the middle classes into the expensive bistro on the first floor; and the european elite - footballers, bankers, and businesspeople - into the invitation only functions on the top floor.
Sid had obtained an invitation for Caroline because he knew Von Wolfswinkle was in town, along with the rest of his ECB committee. They were deliberating the merits of Eurobonds. Justin was actually called in to try and prevent the committee members falling out publicly. There was a slight divergence of opinion between representatives from northern and southern Europe over the principle of sharing debt.
Justin's big thing is emotional intelligence. The theory is that some people, often those most successful in their respective spheres, lack empathy. Problems are caused when they misunderstand the messages given out by others. Justin said that trying to teach emotional intelligence to the ECB committee was like trying to teach chess to two year olds. He did some personality profiling on the members to get them to have some insight. He was so shocked by Von Wolfswinkle's score on the questionnaire that he had to fiddle the figures to avoid embarrassing him in front of Ireland and Italy.
The committee members were all on the top floor, relaxing with canapes and champagne after a hard day's eurobonding. Justin saw Caroline fiddling with her phone and introduced himself, claiming to have done some work for Monsaint when Melody was still the chief exec. Caroline said she was hoping to meet Von Wolfswinkle because his bank had helped with Monsaint's expansion programme in the nineties. Justin grabbed another glass of champagne and squeezed Caroline in between two blond interns who were hanging on VW's every word.
'Herbie, can I introduce my very dear friend, Caroline Fanshaw. I did some work on her team last year. Superstars, every one of them.' Caroline smiled at his brazen lie.They exchanged small talk, and VW insisted he must take her out to dinner one night if she was new to the city. Introductions made, VW headed off after the blond interns who had been gaining political insights from a tall grey-haired man.
'Wow, you were a great hit with Herbie,' said Justin. 'Did you see him stare at your boobs?' Caroline chided Justin for being so personal, but she was wearing a long blue dress, cut low at the front, allowing a glimpse of unnecessarily expensive underwear. The new clothes had been bought with the card provided by Sid for any expenses incurred whilst in Frankfurt.
'Just be careful,' said Justin. 'That man has serious issues. He's not a happy camper-van man.'
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
The Ironing Lady
Marriage is a compromise agreement in which both parties are convinced they have made the majority of the concessions. Caroline is convinced she has to do everything, even in the bedroom. I am equally convinced that when it comes to domestic duties, most of it falls to me because I spend more time at home.
But I draw the line when it comes to ironing. I have, in extremis, pulled a shirt out of the basket and smoothed it over with my hands, but our system is that Caroline lets the basket build up until she has literally nothing to wear. Then we spend a pleasant, sometimes intimate, evening in the kitchen, Caroline in her knickers and me keeping her company. I watch her iron with a glass of wine in my hand.
Yesterday evening she was wearing a red lace 'body' (she told me that's what it's called). I paid her a compliment and asked where she had bought it.
'Oh, I didn't buy it. It was a present from Von Wolfswinkle.'
That made sense. The article of clothing, insubstantial in appearance, was a miracle of German engineering. It held things in and pushed things out rather like the driver's seat of a BMW. Caroline used to wear M&S all the time until she went to Frankfurt to set up Monsaint's European hub, but had discovered the secret of German womanhood (how it is possible to eat dessert and still look fabulous) in the futuristic MyZeil shopping complex.
'Of course, it looks better with high heels,' she said, standing on tip-toe and brandishing the iron to demonstrate.
'I still don't understand why you agreed to let him photograph you in the shopping centre,' I said. 'Didn't you think it was a bit weird? With him being a well-known banker?'
'He was very discreet and kept his distance. He had one of those big lenses.'
Caroline did what she often did when I tried to piece together what happened in Germany and changed the subject.
'I'm wondering about my next move after Monsaint. I think I might go into politics.'
My wine went down the wrong way. When I had stopped coughing, I asked where that idea had come from. She said she'd been reading the obituaries of Maggie.
'She was PM when I was growing up. I thought it was perfectly normal for a woman to wear blue business suits and dominate a room full of men. I've only just realised it was unusual. There's still a long way to go until people like you do your share of the ironing.'
But I draw the line when it comes to ironing. I have, in extremis, pulled a shirt out of the basket and smoothed it over with my hands, but our system is that Caroline lets the basket build up until she has literally nothing to wear. Then we spend a pleasant, sometimes intimate, evening in the kitchen, Caroline in her knickers and me keeping her company. I watch her iron with a glass of wine in my hand.
Yesterday evening she was wearing a red lace 'body' (she told me that's what it's called). I paid her a compliment and asked where she had bought it.
'Oh, I didn't buy it. It was a present from Von Wolfswinkle.'
That made sense. The article of clothing, insubstantial in appearance, was a miracle of German engineering. It held things in and pushed things out rather like the driver's seat of a BMW. Caroline used to wear M&S all the time until she went to Frankfurt to set up Monsaint's European hub, but had discovered the secret of German womanhood (how it is possible to eat dessert and still look fabulous) in the futuristic MyZeil shopping complex.
'Of course, it looks better with high heels,' she said, standing on tip-toe and brandishing the iron to demonstrate.
'I still don't understand why you agreed to let him photograph you in the shopping centre,' I said. 'Didn't you think it was a bit weird? With him being a well-known banker?'
'He was very discreet and kept his distance. He had one of those big lenses.'
Caroline did what she often did when I tried to piece together what happened in Germany and changed the subject.
'I'm wondering about my next move after Monsaint. I think I might go into politics.'
My wine went down the wrong way. When I had stopped coughing, I asked where that idea had come from. She said she'd been reading the obituaries of Maggie.
'She was PM when I was growing up. I thought it was perfectly normal for a woman to wear blue business suits and dominate a room full of men. I've only just realised it was unusual. There's still a long way to go until people like you do your share of the ironing.'
Saturday, 6 April 2013
Spanish Knights
Sid here. Sid Schweinsteiger. Thank you Antonia for the password clue. We are able to watch Premier League football in the civilised German prison system. I am hopeful of transfer soon to the open prison. Frau Reiniger has been a brick, as you English say. Those who have met Helga in the flesh will agree with this description. She visits without fail and I am happy to announce our forthcoming marriage which will be presided over by Herr Direktor. The open system has conjugal visits.
The German system is geared totally to rehabilitation and I have been successfully rehabilitated thanks to Herr Direktor and his team. And thanks to the love of a good woman, Helga. I am allowed one hour on the Internet, though my usual sites are prohibited. I also must not use certain words so pleasebare stay with me.
Antonia brought you to the point of that wonderful evening at my former entertainment bar in sunny Spain. There are many good things about prison life. Not the least of them is to be able to relive those exceptional moments in my mind and on the DVD player, over and over again.
As a bar owner, much of the work is routine. But some nights there is a special feeling in the air, unrelated to the aroma from the Servicios. My eyes caught fire when Caroline and Antonia walked in, accompanied by their two fine men colleagues. I recognised them immediately from the orienteering exercise even though they looked different in their glamorous clothes and make-up. They spotted me at the end of the bar. I pretended I was a customer, not wishing to scare them away. But once in my office upstairs I called Melody and told to her the good news. Our candidates were about to audition.
As a service to the local community and to boost tourism, I allowed my facilities to be used on Thursday nights for amateur theatrics and, if I may go so far as to use the word, burlesque. My generosity extended to giving a token prize of two hundred euro to the woman who achieved the greatest popularity from the attentive audience. Most weeks the prize was awarded to a most athletic local woman, Inocenta, who happened to be the daughter of the chief of police.
On this night, Inocenta, for all her imaginative use of the pole, was merely the warm up act. The mixed crowd was won over by the taste and poise of the British performers (though Antonia pretended to be Swedish). Their enthusiasm was not dented at all when Helena, she of the notorious hen party, was sick over the audience in the middle of her 'act'. It added, I think, an element of danger to the proceedings.
I did not know until I read Robert's blog that Antonia had practised before, but with rear view it is obvious to me that she was almost a professional. If I have any money left after the fines I would pay her for a new performance. Yet it was the redhead with the stagename Bluebell who captured the hearts of the audience and the two hundred euro. She stormed to victory. Melody, who had come down to the bar to watch from my office with me, knew immediately that Caroline was the perfect honey for our little trap.
The German system is geared totally to rehabilitation and I have been successfully rehabilitated thanks to Herr Direktor and his team. And thanks to the love of a good woman, Helga. I am allowed one hour on the Internet, though my usual sites are prohibited. I also must not use certain words so please
Antonia brought you to the point of that wonderful evening at my former entertainment bar in sunny Spain. There are many good things about prison life. Not the least of them is to be able to relive those exceptional moments in my mind and on the DVD player, over and over again.
As a bar owner, much of the work is routine. But some nights there is a special feeling in the air, unrelated to the aroma from the Servicios. My eyes caught fire when Caroline and Antonia walked in, accompanied by their two fine men colleagues. I recognised them immediately from the orienteering exercise even though they looked different in their glamorous clothes and make-up. They spotted me at the end of the bar. I pretended I was a customer, not wishing to scare them away. But once in my office upstairs I called Melody and told to her the good news. Our candidates were about to audition.
As a service to the local community and to boost tourism, I allowed my facilities to be used on Thursday nights for amateur theatrics and, if I may go so far as to use the word, burlesque. My generosity extended to giving a token prize of two hundred euro to the woman who achieved the greatest popularity from the attentive audience. Most weeks the prize was awarded to a most athletic local woman, Inocenta, who happened to be the daughter of the chief of police.
On this night, Inocenta, for all her imaginative use of the pole, was merely the warm up act. The mixed crowd was won over by the taste and poise of the British performers (though Antonia pretended to be Swedish). Their enthusiasm was not dented at all when Helena, she of the notorious hen party, was sick over the audience in the middle of her 'act'. It added, I think, an element of danger to the proceedings.
I did not know until I read Robert's blog that Antonia had practised before, but with rear view it is obvious to me that she was almost a professional. If I have any money left after the fines I would pay her for a new performance. Yet it was the redhead with the stagename Bluebell who captured the hearts of the audience and the two hundred euro. She stormed to victory. Melody, who had come down to the bar to watch from my office with me, knew immediately that Caroline was the perfect honey for our little trap.
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Uninvited Guest
Tee-hee, it's me again, Antonia. Not exactly invited, but Robert won't mind. He's busy doing a website to promote some rubbish he says will be published. www.mywifecaroline.com
Robert is brilliant in court. I went to watch him once and he nearly made me cry. I felt so sorry for the plaintiff. But he's not so smart about passwords. He's used the same formula since the invention of the Internet. You just have to know which football team he supports and his clue, which I shouldn't tell you but has something to do with the goalkeeper. Robert's sulking because his team got knocked out of the FA Cup.
I really wanted the opportunity to tell you what happened in my bedroom when Caroline and I were preparing for our night out at the amateur strip competition in a busy bar in Allucano. Caroline was in two minds and needed some coaching. She'd never done anything like that before. Neither had I, really, but my pole dancing classes had given me the physical confidence that I could carry it off. I practised my gym routine with a couple of boyfriends who were kind enough to applaud enthusiastically.
Caroline had nothing suitable to wear. I never travel without a good range of shoes and underwear - you never know who's round the corner. But Caroline apparently hadn't even brought a swimsuit. She just had her usual business suits and tee-shirt and shorts for the outdoors. I said she could borrow a pair of glasses, put her hair up, and strip off her business suit, but she shuddered at the idea. No, she said, she didn't want to be herself. She wanted to be someone else instead.
So I opened up my wardrobe and big pink case and told her to take her pick. The only shoes that would fit her were some slutty perspex platforms which I said were perfect. She tried to turn round and crashed to the floor, which seemed to dent her confidence. I raided the wine stash, half-bottles left over from dinner, and poured us both a large glass. I knew she really wanted to do it.
'You need some unsuitable clothes to go with those unsuitable shoes,' I said. 'Then you'll feel right.'
So I helped Caroline go through my underwear, like it was an Anne Summers party. I chose her a diaphanous blue set because I knew they were the only ones that would actually fit her. I am quite slight. C thought it was a disadvantage that they had holes in crucial places, like the ones Robert had tried to make her buy from Agent Provocateur. I said, no, it's an advantage because you won't need to acually take them off.
'You mean we have to show our boobs and bottoms?' she said. 'I thought it was just a wet tee-shirt type of thing.' I said she would be fine, and took her through a short routine. She managed to stay upright, but she saw me frowning.
'What?' she said.
'There's hair sticking out,' I said. 'It looks silly.' C said she would dash back to her room and get the Bic out, but I insisted it would be better if she let me do it for her.
So there I am, on my knees, tongue stuck out in concentration, my head between C's legs, C naked on the bed, when who should walk in but our colleague, Jay Emm.
C was terribly embarrassed and felt she had to explain to Jay Emm why she was in my room. She even invited him to come along to the Spanish Knights bar with her. And that is how the four us, me with Clive, and C with Jay Emm, came to be in Sid's bar on that fateful night.
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Robert is brilliant in court. I went to watch him once and he nearly made me cry. I felt so sorry for the plaintiff. But he's not so smart about passwords. He's used the same formula since the invention of the Internet. You just have to know which football team he supports and his clue, which I shouldn't tell you but has something to do with the goalkeeper. Robert's sulking because his team got knocked out of the FA Cup.
I really wanted the opportunity to tell you what happened in my bedroom when Caroline and I were preparing for our night out at the amateur strip competition in a busy bar in Allucano. Caroline was in two minds and needed some coaching. She'd never done anything like that before. Neither had I, really, but my pole dancing classes had given me the physical confidence that I could carry it off. I practised my gym routine with a couple of boyfriends who were kind enough to applaud enthusiastically.
Caroline had nothing suitable to wear. I never travel without a good range of shoes and underwear - you never know who's round the corner. But Caroline apparently hadn't even brought a swimsuit. She just had her usual business suits and tee-shirt and shorts for the outdoors. I said she could borrow a pair of glasses, put her hair up, and strip off her business suit, but she shuddered at the idea. No, she said, she didn't want to be herself. She wanted to be someone else instead.
So I opened up my wardrobe and big pink case and told her to take her pick. The only shoes that would fit her were some slutty perspex platforms which I said were perfect. She tried to turn round and crashed to the floor, which seemed to dent her confidence. I raided the wine stash, half-bottles left over from dinner, and poured us both a large glass. I knew she really wanted to do it.
'You need some unsuitable clothes to go with those unsuitable shoes,' I said. 'Then you'll feel right.'
So I helped Caroline go through my underwear, like it was an Anne Summers party. I chose her a diaphanous blue set because I knew they were the only ones that would actually fit her. I am quite slight. C thought it was a disadvantage that they had holes in crucial places, like the ones Robert had tried to make her buy from Agent Provocateur. I said, no, it's an advantage because you won't need to acually take them off.
'You mean we have to show our boobs and bottoms?' she said. 'I thought it was just a wet tee-shirt type of thing.' I said she would be fine, and took her through a short routine. She managed to stay upright, but she saw me frowning.
'What?' she said.
'There's hair sticking out,' I said. 'It looks silly.' C said she would dash back to her room and get the Bic out, but I insisted it would be better if she let me do it for her.
So there I am, on my knees, tongue stuck out in concentration, my head between C's legs, C naked on the bed, when who should walk in but our colleague, Jay Emm.
C was terribly embarrassed and felt she had to explain to Jay Emm why she was in my room. She even invited him to come along to the Spanish Knights bar with her. And that is how the four us, me with Clive, and C with Jay Emm, came to be in Sid's bar on that fateful night.
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