Apollo C Vermouth's Place

Went by Apollo aka Paul McCartney's House on St.John's Wood on Tuesday to drop off a Pilates/nanny resume and an early birthday present. The press were like vultures waiting on the Serengeti (or as Alan Bennett once wrote 'pigs rooting in their own shit' though after a visit to Hackney Community Farm one knows this is far too gracious a compliment). Wore my flowing blond hair, rosy pink cheeks and brought kitty puppet with me all ready to sing a tune.
Waited nearby the Fleet Street creeps eating lunch in their motors who all thought I was about 19. It was fun to firstly act as if I had no idea why I was put on the planet other than to look sweet, buxom and winsomely dopey but then I gradually allowed my rapier wit to unfold like Peter Sellers as Clair Quilty in 'Lolita.'.

One reporter , who must spend his evenings swilling MDA and pouring over Gary Glitter photos, wanted a photo of my birthday card slash resume and another offered to 'give it to the guy for me.'
No thanks mate.
I explained about my blog and stage name , none of them had seen 'Super Vixens' nor knew of Russ Meyer, this is so saddening as I thought that those who attempt to shape pop culture (albeit poorly) should at least know something of it's history.
The worst was that they had the audacity to tell me that Apollo C Vermouth's birthday was 'last week' and I actually believed them-sad but all those blokes can get right oppressive when they fix their lights on yer mate, I should never have listened.

"Young lady, don't you know that The Rolling Stones are a better band?'
Yawn.

There I was the only British eccentric within miles. I mean what happened? Why does the British press want everyone to be like Paris Hilton now?
I grew quickly tired of being asked to perform private puppet shows later on that evening and decided I'd ring the bell, as if by magic, the gate slowly opened and one of the hunkiest best looking British guys I've ever seen (security) so sweetly appeared. He made me feel so welcome. He kindly took my gift and told me that no one was home at the moment-I actually blushed!
(But here comes the twist 'I don't exist!')
Walked away quickly from the paparazzi into a most beautiful day, telling the press who had their eyes fixed on my bum like hunting scopes, that they now had Super Amanda to contend with and Super Amanda knows no fear and will NOT serve with joy (unless it's Ribena during Cbeebies that is).

They just don't get it.