Dear Mildred,
I've never written to an agony aunt before, but I can no longer help myself; I have a Problem. I'm feeling disconnected and discombobulated because - well - I can hardly bring myself to say this...
It turns out that the Blessed Nigella may have been Living a Lie.
That dreamlike world she appeared to inhabit, of a home smelling constantly of vanilla shortbread, mulled wine and/or fragrantly spiced made-in-advance casseroles? It - gasp - doesn't exist.
Instead, it turns out that underneath the cashmere twinsets, splendid bosoms and luxuriant hair Nigella is (oh, the horror!) just like you and I. Stressed, struggling and paddling like fxck. Who knew? I feel so let down, Mildred. It turns out that my entire template of domestic excellence is built on a sham. How can I possibly continue to use her recipe for Chocolate Birthday Cake for my impressionable children? Where now can I turn to, to replace my standby Greek Lamb Casserole recipe at polite dinner parties? Dear god, what about the Christmas turkey - how will I brine it? The Macaroni Cheese with ham on Boxing Day? The Pear & Roquefort Salad that is my fail-safe starter?
All of these recipes, gone, Mildred. Gone to shit.
Because you know, dear Mildred, it's not as if they are just recipe books, or anything like that. It's not as if they are simply useful indexes that produce food that tastes delicious, end of story. It's not as if Nigella's ability to create a menu has nothing whatsoever to do with the potential car crash her personal life may resemble. I mean, there's the merchandise to consider, too. The serving plates, the crockery, the aprons. All of it must go to the Bring & Buy, tomorrow, if possible.
And - oh god - what about the tv programmes? How will I fill the gap left in the schedule? Because I couldn't possibly sit and watch her cook now, giving me instruction on how to make a souffle without fuss when I know that the sparkly lights, the shiny utensils, the artfully placed kitsch, are not in Her Real Kitchen but are, in fact, part of a carefully constructed studio set. You know, a tv studio. Where ENTERTAINMENT is made. Not part of her Real Life, at all.
I may never recover from this disappointment.
Yours, weepily
Betrayed of Moscow.
I'm hoping that if you've read this far you'll agree the above letter is ridiculous and have picked up on the fact that whilst I feel sympathy for all those involved in what seems to be a godawful mess, I'm getting a little bored with seeing it rehashed time and again in my timelines on fb and twitter. You see, I have a confession; I don't really give two hoots about the personal lives of celebrities or the Great and the Good.
There. I've said it. My dirty little secret is out in the open.
I don't care about the personal lives of the Royals and their extended family - or at least, not more than I care about anyone else. I don't give a flying fxck who that actress in whatever film it was is married to. I don't want to know goes on behind Gordon's / Nigel's / Fanny Craddock's front door, and I'm not interested in seeing what the mother of the bride wore to so & so rugby player's wedding.
As for Nigella, it seems likely that she messed up. She presented a face to the world that may not have been entirely the one that existed behind closed doors. (Who would do such a thing, for goodness sake?) She allegedly let people down.
And guess what - it's none of my business.
I've never written to an agony aunt before, but I can no longer help myself; I have a Problem. I'm feeling disconnected and discombobulated because - well - I can hardly bring myself to say this...
It turns out that the Blessed Nigella may have been Living a Lie.
That dreamlike world she appeared to inhabit, of a home smelling constantly of vanilla shortbread, mulled wine and/or fragrantly spiced made-in-advance casseroles? It - gasp - doesn't exist.
Instead, it turns out that underneath the cashmere twinsets, splendid bosoms and luxuriant hair Nigella is (oh, the horror!) just like you and I. Stressed, struggling and paddling like fxck. Who knew? I feel so let down, Mildred. It turns out that my entire template of domestic excellence is built on a sham. How can I possibly continue to use her recipe for Chocolate Birthday Cake for my impressionable children? Where now can I turn to, to replace my standby Greek Lamb Casserole recipe at polite dinner parties? Dear god, what about the Christmas turkey - how will I brine it? The Macaroni Cheese with ham on Boxing Day? The Pear & Roquefort Salad that is my fail-safe starter?
All of these recipes, gone, Mildred. Gone to shit.
Because you know, dear Mildred, it's not as if they are just recipe books, or anything like that. It's not as if they are simply useful indexes that produce food that tastes delicious, end of story. It's not as if Nigella's ability to create a menu has nothing whatsoever to do with the potential car crash her personal life may resemble. I mean, there's the merchandise to consider, too. The serving plates, the crockery, the aprons. All of it must go to the Bring & Buy, tomorrow, if possible.
And - oh god - what about the tv programmes? How will I fill the gap left in the schedule? Because I couldn't possibly sit and watch her cook now, giving me instruction on how to make a souffle without fuss when I know that the sparkly lights, the shiny utensils, the artfully placed kitsch, are not in Her Real Kitchen but are, in fact, part of a carefully constructed studio set. You know, a tv studio. Where ENTERTAINMENT is made. Not part of her Real Life, at all.
I may never recover from this disappointment.
Yours, weepily
Betrayed of Moscow.
I'm hoping that if you've read this far you'll agree the above letter is ridiculous and have picked up on the fact that whilst I feel sympathy for all those involved in what seems to be a godawful mess, I'm getting a little bored with seeing it rehashed time and again in my timelines on fb and twitter. You see, I have a confession; I don't really give two hoots about the personal lives of celebrities or the Great and the Good.
There. I've said it. My dirty little secret is out in the open.
I don't care about the personal lives of the Royals and their extended family - or at least, not more than I care about anyone else. I don't give a flying fxck who that actress in whatever film it was is married to. I don't want to know goes on behind Gordon's / Nigel's / Fanny Craddock's front door, and I'm not interested in seeing what the mother of the bride wore to so & so rugby player's wedding.
As for Nigella, it seems likely that she messed up. She presented a face to the world that may not have been entirely the one that existed behind closed doors. (Who would do such a thing, for goodness sake?) She allegedly let people down.
And guess what - it's none of my business.
Yup.
ReplyDeleteThink my overriding comment has been, "Who gives a monkey's arse?"
Or possibly less salubrious. But you get the gist.
LCM x
Great post. You're so right. She's only human.
ReplyDeleteSelf-righteous ________! (Fill in the blank as you so choose!)
Another one who doesn't really care - that said it sounds like she has had a terrible time over recent years
ReplyDeleteDoes her former husband not realise that nobody is going to like him even a little bit more for knocking her down? Stop it Charles, you aren't doing yourself and favours