Chelsea has invited herself for breakfast, bribing us with her price of entry: a plate load of steaming fresh baked muffins. We are supplying the butter and jam. And peanut butter. Her cat is on the sundeck, alert for something to kill. She is a welcome presence, and between sips of coffee is telling us about some of her regular salon clients. Right now she is fixated on Samantha, seventy-something with a penchant for purple hair and a young Latino manfriend in her winter hideaway in Puerto Vallarta.
"Three times widowed", she says. "And twice divorced. Grass does not grow under that woman's feet. and she is hilarious! She inherited a whole wad of dough from her first two husbands, and invested heavily in plastic and cosmetic surgery. She looks like a large ageing Barbie doll with tits just like Dolly Parton. You would have to see her to believe her.", and Chelsea gestures with her hands over her own tiny bosom in order to illustrate the size of Samantha's endowments.
She appears animated, almost manic, and the smile hasn't left her face nor have her arms or hands been still since she sat down with us. Her coffee must be stone cold by now, since she hasn't had time to drink any of it.
"I had a look at your blog yesterday", say I. "And I found your accounts about your family extremely interesting."
"And did you also happen to stumble across Geraldine Bang-Bang?" says Chelsea...
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