The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Belle de Jour
meets Francois Sagan in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. In 1946. Shopping‐and‐fucking chicklit really has nothing on this.
lundi, le 24 novembre
Does it seem like Christmas begins earlier every year? I think I saw someone hanging fairy lights last week and I swear my next-door neighbour has had red tinsel in her window since July. Now everyone's at it, and even though the day is a month away I'm sick of it already. Granted, not being Christian, my tolerance is fairly low.
Rubbish 'holiday' occurrences:
Being asked to wear red, fur‐trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods 31
indeed to find Father Christmas a turn‐on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.
People who use the word 'Crimbo'. That's just wrong.
The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what
'this season is really about'. It's about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?
People who are impossible to shop for. In this category is A3, whose only extravagance is a Man United season ticket each year. What to buy the man who thinks he has everything? I ring A4, who suggests socks.
Customers who ask what I'll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can't decide what would be a suitable answer ‐ a glamorous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch's cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).
But the holidays are great because:
Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.
The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favour of mince pies.
End‐of‐year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritan of sex.
Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.
This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties.
Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please!
32
mardi,le 25 novembre
I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.
Walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. One does not often see a stiletto‐clad blonde midweek in a pub, but I am accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local.
The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.
The septuagenarian barmaid aside ‐ or should that be barmatron? ‐ I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious. Everyone paused, saw me, then turned back to their drinks and football. The match was clearly an important one.
It ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to order fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.
'When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot.'
'Is that so?' I said, rather confused.
'Ah well, it doesn't matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group.'
'So they are. I did my best, anyway.'
He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realised my hat, which I'd left on for the entire hour, was green‐and‐white striped. Some mascot. I drained my glass and left for the next appointment.
33
mercredi, le 26 novembre
It's a public health issue, I know.
I understand such feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year ‐ the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn't normally do because they think,
lundi, le 24 novembre
Does it seem like Christmas begins earlier every year? I think I saw someone hanging fairy lights last week and I swear my next-door neighbour has had red tinsel in her window since July. Now everyone's at it, and even though the day is a month away I'm sick of it already. Granted, not being Christian, my tolerance is fairly low.
Rubbish 'holiday' occurrences:
Being asked to wear red, fur‐trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods 31
indeed to find Father Christmas a turn‐on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.
People who use the word 'Crimbo'. That's just wrong.
The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what
'this season is really about'. It's about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?
People who are impossible to shop for. In this category is A3, whose only extravagance is a Man United season ticket each year. What to buy the man who thinks he has everything? I ring A4, who suggests socks.
Customers who ask what I'll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can't decide what would be a suitable answer ‐ a glamorous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch's cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).
But the holidays are great because:
Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.
The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favour of mince pies.
End‐of‐year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritan of sex.
Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.
This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties.
Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please!
32
mardi,le 25 novembre
I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.
Walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. One does not often see a stiletto‐clad blonde midweek in a pub, but I am accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local.
The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.
The septuagenarian barmaid aside ‐ or should that be barmatron? ‐ I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious. Everyone paused, saw me, then turned back to their drinks and football. The match was clearly an important one.
It ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to order fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.
'When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot.'
'Is that so?' I said, rather confused.
'Ah well, it doesn't matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group.'
'So they are. I did my best, anyway.'
He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realised my hat, which I'd left on for the entire hour, was green‐and‐white striped. Some mascot. I drained my glass and left for the next appointment.
33
mercredi, le 26 novembre
It's a public health issue, I know.
I understand such feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year ‐ the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn't normally do because they think,
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