Been too upset to write. It's Seal and Heidi breaking up. I mean all that vow-renewing and public kissing in elaborate Halloween costumes-check them out online,quite marvellous, and for what? 'Grown apart' indeed, not a bit original or scandalous and he's still giving us all hope 'cos he won't take his ring off. This was a celebrity marriage we could believe in as opposed to say, Russell and Katy or, as it turns out, Denise Welch and that funny wee Tim person. The former truly of the 'I'll give them six months' ilk and the latter very solid-looking until Denise revealed her true bold self on Celeb BB.
Not that I have time to watch that, oh no, far too busy with the Real Housewives. Beverley Hills is my choice though once I started talking about them, it turned out everyone was at it, Orange County, New York, Miami whatever but I'm committed to Beverley Hills. It might be the exclusive wearing of Louboutins or that they have properly interesting personalities developped, I feel, to compensate for their frozen faces. They really don't have facial expressions at all any more, on account of the surgery/botox/filler but are forever becoming irate or grief-stricken,in the course of their very many rows. This involves eye-widening,head-shaking,intoning 'I am so mad at you right naow' and then tears pour from their eyes without any sort of face-crumpling.This is always happening at dinner so they have to hold a huge linen napkin up to their faces and dab, they don't do Scotties tissues in Holywood, it would appear. I don't know how they get by when not in a restaurant as their lives are beset by impending divorces, threats of lawsuits over repeating confidences and sinister clairvoyants who aren't a bit shy about hinting when they will die/get a divorce/lose all their money in a lawsuit.They are always somehow able to cheer themselves up with a mani-pedi and some hair extensions in preparation for a theme party-there's one every other week. They already have inappropriately long manes for women-of-a-certain-age this side of the pond; yet out they come of the stretch limos like something out of Tangled. Is it any wonder I'm dying to become one? I just require a particularly rich husband to shell out for all the legal bother I'd get into for talking about people.
I think there's two Real Housewives of a Norn Iron type in my gym class though one definitely looks like the sort of blade who always has a tissue up the sleeve of her cardigan. You don't do that if you're under 60, I reckon. Mind you, her arse is like a peanut, she's never away from Exercise Studio One. She and her mate are the types who appear at the gym fully made up-a full face of Flawless Finish each and no stinting on the Elnett either. They looked magnificent the other day next to my naked face and albino eyelashes and the teacher, who was slim and toned but managed not to be attractive with it. She had no Microphone pack so mouthed her instructions very exaggeratedly with frantic gestures, nodding and sign language. All she needed was a cloche hat and a wee dog and you'd have thought you were watching The Artist. We all fell off our steps apart from The Real Housewives of the Holywood Road, who know all the routines backwards and the instructors by name so that they can boss them about over the room temperature. One is ridiculously fit and the other scarily flexible-together they'd make one Madonna. She'd make a dreadful Housewife; terribly keen on hard work and you never see any decent jewellery, what with those stupid studded driving gloves. It'd be the other way round with me. I figure I'll go for an eye lift or something good and scary-looking, then run off with the surgeon.
