by Vaughan Savidge
Diane thought carefully what her response would be. It was all very flattering having a
reporter from the Sunday paper following her wherever she went, recording her life for
posterity - but these weekly interviews were beginning to take their toll.
The reporter's question required a measured response - after all, her answer would be
seen as a beacon of light, a way forward, for all those horrible "little" people
in their dreadful caged flats in Yau Ma Tei, Mong Kok, the Mid Levels and Pokfulam.
The sunlight caught the reporter's bottle of whisky, bringing her back to the question
at hand. An answer came to her.
Diane opened her mouth with a wry smile : "Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah
blah blah."
The reporter nodded in encouragement. This was good stuff. Certainly better than last
week's.
Diane winced as she remembered the disastrous ball on June the fourth. "I hope he
doesn't ask me about that" she thought to herself. Whatever had possessed her to
suggest an Al Fresco evening in Victoria Park? Those thousands of horrible gatecrashers
who came to rub their sweaty bodies close to the glitterati - and sing their terrible
songs. When would these malodorous, ordinary little people realise that these big
occasions solely required the attendance of people with a certain savoir faire, a certain
joie de vivre, a certain (in a French accent) bank balance. She would certainly be
more careful in future about the balls she handled.
The reporter was speaking - bringing her back from her thoughts. "Tell me again
about your dear friends Crystal, Flora and Chantal."
"Thank God", she thought. "We're back on home turf."
She opened her mouth and the words just came to her - as if by magic.
"Blah blah blah blah, blah blah ........"
