My roaring forties would like to apologise for the long absence. A hefty work load has meant that there hasn’t been much time for blogging. Imagine my delight then, when my former boss and the prettiest lady in all christendom offered to step in. Yes ladies, avert your boyfriends’ gaze…. she’s kindly taken time out from her fascinating columns in the Daily Mail ( a couple of her best are listed below if you’d like a read)
And now ….. please welcome the facially fabulous Ms Samantha Brick…. do try not to scratch her eyes out!
Ooh la la, I’m super excited to be here. I thought that you might like to hear about what a day in the life of a busy former tv executive on a six figure salary turned french housewife and writer for the utterly brill Daily Mail, is really like.
I start my day at five am by opening my eyes. Leaving the cosy confines of my snuggly duvet, not to mention my fab french hubby, I get up. As a former tv executive earning a six figure salary, I often used to get up in the morning.
I walk into my caramel hued kitchen, past my biscuit painted shelves, open my buttery shaded cupboard, get out fawn toned mugs and make two steaming bowls of faeces coloured coffee. I then walk through to my lilac and lavender sitting room and greet my gorgeous french hubby Pascal, who, naked, is managing to clean his gun, hand me a newly scrawled list of my daily chores (yup he can write too) and scratch his genitals all at the same time. I beam, blissfully and reach for a wet wipe as our hands touch over the coffee. Who said men can’t multi task!
When I was a tv executive earning a six figure salary, I would leave my pastel pretty house in Richmond at about 9am wearing my Stella Macartney tracksuit, carrying my understated yet luxurious DVF wrap dress and Jimmy Choos in my gucci holdall. Juggling my ever beeping Blackberry, Smythson appointment book and my quilted ‘must have’ Chloe clutch bag, I’d hurry scurry to my private pilates appointment in my super duper mercedes. After strengthening my inner core, I’d spend two hours in the hairdressers, before heading to Soho house to discuss future programmes with such tv talents as the gorgeous Sarah Duchess of York and Tania Bryer over a yummy light lunch of Cristal Champagne and steamed veggies. Of course, I never paid for these. The waiters would wave away my proffered credit card, dazzled by my beauty. I would then pop into my office, where to my horror, my all female hormonal staff would be literally scratching each others eyes out, or pulling each other’s neatly highlighted hair, when they should have been making my brilliant telly programmes. (The day that they installed a wrestling ring complete with mud to fully go girl on girl was a wretched one readers). I’d pop into the loo for a little cry over how mean girls can be to other girls. Then I’d pick up my twelve pieces of matching Louis vuitton luggage and head out to Heathrow to catch a plane (turning left of course) to Thailand to embark on a much needed holiday at five star spa, Chiva Som, essential for de stressing after my very very difficult day.
I often think about those days now and wonder how on earth my company went so badly wrong? My life is so different now I’m a simple french house wife.
After waving my gorgeous french hubby off to work, I settle down to the chores. I start by chopping wood (I love a roaring fire). We have no central heating and in winter the temperature drops to minus ten here in our corner of the Lot! I fell four mighty oaks and then scrub the house from top to bottom . When I think back to my former career as a tv executive earning a six figure salary, I feel like Cinderella in reverse! But blissfully happy, I assure you.
Chores over, it’s time to head to the supermarket. When I first came here, I couldn’t speak a word of French. But now, five years on, I blend in like a native. This is helped by dressing for my weekly food buying trip, in a stripey breton top and beret. Where once I would have accessorised with silky Hermes scarf, I now artfully arrange a string of onions around my neck. Thus looking like the simple french housewife I am (a far cry from the tv executive who started the career Kate Thornton – yup I earned those six figures with my eye for talent spotting ), I skip lightly out of the house. I get into my voiture (car), drive down la rue (road) until reaching our local supermarket and drive into le car park (er…. car park).
Here the inevitable happens. I am greeted by a tidal wave of men. They literally fight amongst themselves to get to me, all hoping to park my car for me. A group of them rush to proffure flowers, bubbly and train tickets (which is odd, cos our nearest station is 400 km away). Once inside, I have no need of trolleys. I merely pile my goodies into the arms of les hommes that follow me around. There is no opportunity to pay. My credit card is inevitably waved away by the spotty adolescent at the check out.
On my way home, I pass a female friend from the village. I wave and she ignores me. This, as my many many fans will know, is not a surprise. My struggles with other women is well documented and began when I was a tv executive, earning a six figure salary. Women do not like me because I am beautiful. There can be no other reason and certainly not in this case. Helene (her real name), has not spoken to me for many months. She used to be my best friend in the village. But ever since I rushed over to show her the bit in my newly published memoir, where I recount our highly confidential, conversation where she tearfully shared a tricky gynaecological problem, she has ignored me. As I was looking particularly pretty that day, blond hair tied back, lashings of mascara, wearing a flippety floral frock, I know that this is pure jealousy. (She was wearing dungarees at the time). There can be no other reason. So, to all my detractors on twitter – what further proof do you need that women don’t like women who are more beautiful?
A word on the book by the way. It’s available on Amazon right now. I’m excited to say that over nineteen people have rushed out to buy a copy. That’s as many people who watched my hit Sky series ‘Hot Love’ that I was the executive on. Pascal, my gorgeous french hubby, controls the purse strings and knowing how I like to spend spend spend, gives me a limited budget of nine euros a week for food, household bills etc….. so the Mail articles and the memoir give me much needed ‘pin money’.
But I’m a first and foremost a french housewife and a writer second. Shortly after returning from the shops. a roar and the strong and oh so manly scent of rancid sweat informs me that my gorgeous hubby Pascal is home for lunch. He strides into the lilac and lavender living room sweeps onto the floor a buttercup yellow vase of creamy hyacinths that I had recently placed on the chocolate hued oak farmhouse table (I do love a feminine touch). In it’s place, he throws down a huge, freshly shot, still profusely bleeding, wild boar. ‘Cook zee peeeg’ he barks, before opening a window that looks out onto the lavender covered valley and releasing his not insignificant bowels into the bowls of scarlet geraniums on the terrace below. They don’t water themselves folks! Assuming that by ‘peeg’ he means the wild boar, rather than myself, I giggle coquettishly, and begin dragging the ten stone carcus across the chalky flagstones into the kitchen. ”Men!’ I sigh happily, as I begin to skin and gut it.
I’m a committed vegetarian. When I was a tv executive, my six figure salary would often be spent on tiny salads bought from and delivered by fortnum’s food hall. Here I make do for lunch with a cup of delicious green tea and a single raisin. While I’m chewing, Pascal storms into the kitchen to enquire why I haven’t put his customary flagon of beer on the lunch table. I start guiltily. He advances towards me, manly mostache bristling in suspicion.
‘What you eeeeeet, Sam?’ He snarls.
‘Rien de tout’ (nothing at all) I whimper, trying to swallow the blasted raisin, busying myself by humping the gigantic, now roasted piece of meat out of the aga.
‘Eeef you get fat, I deeeevooorrrrccceeee you……..’
How lucky I am, to have a man who cares so much about me. I set the lunch table, no need for a knife and fork for my french fella. He simply pulls great hunks of flesh with his hands and stuffs them into his mouth, while cleaning his 12 inch blade hunting knife on my cath kidson tea towel. He ends the meal with a fart, the strenghth and decibel level sends the dogs scurrying for the door! My boyfriends in london were such wimps, I think contendedly.
Lunch over, I wave Pascal back to work His dire warnings about my weight have given me an idea for an article. As you may know, I am the writer who tells it as it is. I bravely speak for all women with my brave and utterly truthful views. I therefore decide that all women need to be thin in order to be happy and successful. I pin this utterly appropriate thesis on an interview I find in the Telegraph online with my heroine, Joan Collins. ’I have been on a diet since I was 14′ claims La Collins. The journalist goes on to talk about her throwaway wry asides, her deep rooted security in her looks. Her well balanced and rounded personality and innate intelligence. Not to mention her ability to enjoy a decent lunch washed down with several glasses of red. But I know that Joan was sincere in this statement. So I write the article. Contrary to popular belief, I research these pieces thoroughly. Wikipedia features high on my online history list. I also find a department of health report detailing how one in three young women will suffer at some point from anorexia. I shed a tear. Lucky lucky things!
Proof that anyone over a size twelve can’t be happy and successful (as if proof were needed ha ha)
Multi platinum selling singer / songwriter, Oscar winner and new mum Adele. Think how much happier and more successful she could be at a size ten.
Woman’s hour Jenni Murray OBE . Award winning writer and broadcaster. A breast cancer survivor who lobbies hard for better oncological care for fellow sufferers. Doyenne of Radio 4, she very seldom appears on telly tho. When I was a tv executive, I’d earn every penny of my six figure salary, Jenni, by putting you on a 1000 calorie a day diet, before popping you into a Vivienne Westwood basque and giving you a daytime series where you’d probe z list celebrities about their shopping addictions. Emotive stuff hey!
Nigella Lawson….lusted over by millions of men, multi millionnaire cookbook queen. just flipping greedy in my book!
Piece filed, it’s time to cook Pascal’s (and my six gorgeous doggies) dinner. This is the easy bit. I put seven bowls on the terrace, pile them high with raw meat and pour myself a delicious glass of rose as I contendedly watch all of my men folk chow down.
And that’s it….. We go to bed early, as in our remote corner of France, seventeen miles from the nearest village, there is precious little to do come nightfall and at 5 am it will all start again. As I snuggle down in the manly arms of my gorgeous french hubby, I smile to myself….. golly this french housewife lark is a long way from being a tv executive…… on a six figure salary!