Leonora Madd's Mallorcan Christmas Diary - II

(Sitting in for me for a second day, it's Leonora Madd, former society editor of "The Countrylady" and now resident somewhere in an imaginary Mallorca.)


Isn't Mallorca simply wonderful at this time of the year.

The association's tombola and dinner dance were both huge successes, and what a marvellous surprise that Captain Portillo should turn up and wish us all a merry Christmas. It was regrettable that Hugo had to leave with the Captain, especially as he had been so assiduous in making the DVDs that he had kindly then donated as third prize. But he was back home by Christmas Eve and said that the Captain is a great film fan.

Some members did of course head orf to Magalluf. What a frightful place. Needless to say, Vivienne Milfman organised the charabanc and the whole affair. Well she would, what with coming from Clacton! The woman has no style, and as for that spiv of a husband of hers.

Of course, it's all lottery money. She was no more than a barmaid, though she insists she was a publican. Not that this should be anything to boast about. The authorities really should have a fit-and-proper person's test before letting in some of the riff-raff that we're getting now. That villa of theirs is simply hideous. Done up like a Turkish brothel. Knowing that crook at Inmobiliaria Chicoancho, it would not surprise me in the slightest if, even with the millions from Camelot, she had paid black. What a relief though that she had gone, as she would have insisted that the Reverend had a karaoke at the carol service on Christmas Eve.

Clarissa rang on Christmas Day. It was just too much to think of her unable to be with us for Christmas luncheon and having to make do with couscous and a bottle of lemonade. And she wouldn't even be watching the Queen! Apparently Mohammed had commandeered the home-cinema system so that he could practise some video or other that he was making.

Giles had insisted on inviting Johnny Utterly and that Russian girl he's taken up with. Daphne will be turning in her grave, and it's only six months since the awful accident when the satellite dish fell on her. Natasha, she calls herself. Claims to be descended from Tsar Nicholas, but what she's doing in Palma, Heaven only knows. In my days at "The Countrylady", all the gals from European royal stock had themselves pied-à-terres in St. John's Wood. Johnny is rather vague as to her line of work. It won't last of course. She's barely out of her gymslip, and he's drawing his pension. At least Hugo and she seemed to hit it orf. Indeed Hugo seemed to know her already, though for the life of me I can't think from where.

The pheasants, and thank you all for asking, were of course the highlight.

Leonora Madd's Mallorcan Christmas Diary - I

(I am delighted that Leonora is standing in for me for a couple of days. Her writing days are rather behind her now. In fact they were never really in front of her, but she does bring her own unique insights into Mallorcan expatriate life. Andrew.)


Isn’t Mallorca simply wonderful at this time of the year.

I have buffed up my stout walking boots and been on many a long trek in the forests with Rufus, our labrador-collie cross. Poor thing, our deranged Mallorcan neighbour tried to blow him up the other day. And all because Rufie had impregnated the frightful man’s bitch. Fancy allowing a dog on heat to be out unleashed. The man is a positive menace. It’s all I can do to prevent Giles taking a horse-whip to the fellow. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

Giles thought there was something a bit fishy about the wires leading from Rufus’s kennel. We got nowhere when we challenged the man. Not a word of English of course. Giles says he will call Captain Portillo and insist that he arrests him. It is reassuring that we are on such good terms with the Captain, despite the little incident with Hugo, his Moroccan chums and that launch that beached on the western coast a couple of years ago.

It is so wonderful that Hugo has been let out in time for Christmas. He celebrated by going to the gofe and country club and had a truly splendid time, only marginally spoilt by vomiting over Marjorie Bottomworthy’s feet. Well if she must wear Jimmy Choo’s - at her age! - what can she expect. The mad bat should wear something sensible.

Sadly, though, Clarissa will not be coming to us for Christmas. Hugo is distraught that his sister cannot make it and at her having converted to Islam, and this only months since she was a regular at the Sikh temple.

What has happened to Harbhajan we don’t know, but Mohammed seems a decent enough type. Giles had suggested we send him some whisker trimmers for Christmas to tackle that monstrosity of a beard. I had to point out, of course, that Mohammed doesn’t celebrate Christmas, which was a blessing in a way as it saved us the cost of the DHL.

Giles and he seem to be getting on famously. Mohammed is fascinated by Giles’s time with the Ministry, and they are exchanging emails about nuclear installations. At least it keeps Giles occupied. The last thing I need is him getting under my feet when I am busy organising the association’s Christmas tombola and annual dinner and dance.

And then there’s Christmas itself to prepare. Thank Heavens once more for the Captain. I had told Giles that he and Johnny Utterly should be a bit cautious in helping themselves to protected flora and fauna in the local nature park, but did they heed my advice? The Captain was kind enough to intervene after the patrol stopped them with the two small pine trees strapped to the roof of the Range Rover and the pheasants in the boot having gone into rigor mortis. Rufus had apparently been going berserk.

“They will make a fine Christmas feast,” he said. He does speak such wonderful English, and I do so admire a man in green. Giles is a tad jealous I suspect and has been hunting in the spare-room wardrobe for his old TA fatigues. I do, though, draw the line at him wearing his Barbour in bed.

Merry Christmas to all,
Leonora