Some blessed prole has recently purchased a seventeenth-century-style pearl-peppered black velvet dress with my name on it. Literally. Yea, for amongst the Jacobis and the Shaws, the Stewarts and the McKellans, the name of an eagerly aspiring, fresh-faced and lissom-limbed young Blonde lies on the grubby label of a countess costume she donned for the RSC when life sparkled with the dewy patina of possibility and Denchian distinction seemed only a clammy casting couch clinch away. But that was in another country and besides, the wench is dead.
So much so that, in Stratford on Saturday, she couldn't bear to browse the rare RSC cast-off costume sale. Feeling that to her embittered aortas it could only be a kind of fashion flagellation, flagging up her failure to ravish the playhouses of the realm, she instead roamed Marks and Spencer like a kamikaze dandy, hoovering up half-price tat with a vial of Jacquesian bile in her soul.
What do we call that kind of behaviour, kid?