Lady Veronica Pumsey QC has kindly agreed to fill in for her absent husband.
Donald is unwell. He is resting. In fact he may be fast asleep on his knees in the throne room. So it has fallen to me to provide this week's thoughts on, oh, shopping or whatever it is he claims to regulate while he's negotiating the knickers off his steady stream of secretaries.
Don't think I don't know, dear reader. After a certain period of wedlock, one ceases to care. And of course his shenanigans leave time for my own retail therapy, namely afternoon delight at one of Señor Criado-Perez's Ann Summers parties. But I digress. Before ridding himself of his Special Brew and lobster in a rather noisy and unpleasant fashion, Donald did ask me to pass on an apology. To whit: in his last epistle, he suggested that the profits of the utterly revolting Tesco would approach £3.3 trillion this year.
This turns out to be an exaggeration. No-one was gladder than I when the infallible pages of my Daily Mail informed me that the ghastly monolith had experienced the most feeble Christmas in retail history, and its ill-gotten gains will not now exceed £3.2 trillion.
It goes without saying that the provisions of the Pumsey household are all sourced in local emporia. Mr Gizzard the butcher assures me none of his birds are actually slaughtered, but are coaxed into a happy voluntary euthanasia using a video recording featuring Mr Fearnley-Whittingstall. And I'm sure the Range Rovers that service the 14 farmers' markets that service this village all run on garden compost biofuel. Luckily, there's the local Waitrose for top-ups, but it does tend to fill with hoi polloi.
If Donald really wanted to make a difference, he'd close those execrable supermarkets once and for all. And if any Poor People starve, well so be it. There wouldn't be any Asda for them to work in anyway.
Donald is unwell. He is resting. In fact he may be fast asleep on his knees in the throne room. So it has fallen to me to provide this week's thoughts on, oh, shopping or whatever it is he claims to regulate while he's negotiating the knickers off his steady stream of secretaries.
Don't think I don't know, dear reader. After a certain period of wedlock, one ceases to care. And of course his shenanigans leave time for my own retail therapy, namely afternoon delight at one of Señor Criado-Perez's Ann Summers parties. But I digress. Before ridding himself of his Special Brew and lobster in a rather noisy and unpleasant fashion, Donald did ask me to pass on an apology. To whit: in his last epistle, he suggested that the profits of the utterly revolting Tesco would approach £3.3 trillion this year.
This turns out to be an exaggeration. No-one was gladder than I when the infallible pages of my Daily Mail informed me that the ghastly monolith had experienced the most feeble Christmas in retail history, and its ill-gotten gains will not now exceed £3.2 trillion.
It goes without saying that the provisions of the Pumsey household are all sourced in local emporia. Mr Gizzard the butcher assures me none of his birds are actually slaughtered, but are coaxed into a happy voluntary euthanasia using a video recording featuring Mr Fearnley-Whittingstall. And I'm sure the Range Rovers that service the 14 farmers' markets that service this village all run on garden compost biofuel. Luckily, there's the local Waitrose for top-ups, but it does tend to fill with hoi polloi.
If Donald really wanted to make a difference, he'd close those execrable supermarkets once and for all. And if any Poor People starve, well so be it. There wouldn't be any Asda for them to work in anyway.
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