Hope and Greenwood

Lucky me, I am summoned by Sonya from the BBC to give an interview; she asks would I care to take tea with her at the Ritz where she can plunder my sweet knowledge and I can steal the silverware. Well why not, how lovely, how deeply posh, times are tough and I’m partial to an egg mayonnaise and cress bridge roll.

I arrive nicely on time, for a change. I have made an effort and am wearing a black 1950’s frock which, I realise too late, is extremely tight and revealing. My ample orbs are in danger of slipping their moorings and winning the Trans Green Park, Hot Air Balloon Race.

Perhaps a subtle linen napkin, or two, may suffice to veil the opulent shame of my Jayne Mansfields?

Oh bugger it, I stick out my attributes and sally forth, head held high, regardless. Several road mender types fall down manholes, a women’s library of lesbians loosen their dungarees, a small dog dances on its hind legs, route masters screech to a halt and a foreigner covers her child’s eyes with her Fendi python tote.

Sonya arrives. She is smart casualle in her 7 For All Mankind jeans, Diane Von Furstenberg coat and on trend metallic heels. She sweeps her eyes over my curvaceous outfit in one disparaging wave of horror.

‘You will never get into the Ritz dressed like that,’ she winces, ‘you look like a bloody prostitute!’

We are off to a grand start then.

Reluctantly Sonya steers me through the impressive portico of the hotel, across the marble foyer towards the reception desk. The stern receptionist folds his gloved and gold buttoned arms securely across his chest and rocks slightly on his heels. He tuts, quite loudly as it happens.

‘I’m sorry madam, you can’t come in.’ he says bluntly.

Sonya swivels her eyes at me and arches her eyebrows of mortification, she is well angry. She does that head bendy, screw thing and throws me the stare of a virgin at a Bacchanalian love in.

‘I’m sorry, Madam’, says the receptionist, as he leans over his counter and peers at her legs, ‘the Ritz has a ‘no jeans’ policy’.