An Open Letter

To the person who stole my bag from the Sun in Splendour, W11:
You, sir or madam, are a total ****ing ****. Please, don’t be misled by the asterisks. It is neither modesty nor concern for minors that compels me to adorn my usually fruity prose with this stellar embellishment: it’s simply that there aren’t swear words sufficient, in volume or calibre, to express the full extent of my feelings towards you. Ire is just the ****ing start of it. I hereby list the reasons why you are a total *****ing *****jockey.
1. For a crack addict, you’re a sneaky ****. At around 19.00, I moved my bag from its relatively exposed position beside my chair to a much narrower space between my foot and the table leg. At 19.15, I looked down and it was gone. Steffi, facing me, saw nothing. Vicky, to my right, saw nothing. I, despite the fact that at some point your head had evidently been inches from my ****ing crotch, saw and felt **** all. The barman suggested that you may have been working as part of a pair. Your ****face partner is evidently an unsociable ****er: we weren’t engaged in conversation, spilt drinks over, or chatted up by anyone. You nimble ****munches.
2. You have ****ing awful judgement. With the pick of all the shiny leather satchels, branded backpacks, patent clutches and designer handbags that Notting Hill affords, you chose to ****ing thieve my ****ing bag. I bought my bag for £30 when I was in Glastonbury with my then boyfriend in the summer of 2007. It’s made of grey hemp (now patchily discoloured and stained with myriad mystery fluids), adorned with a battered, slightly embarrassing and increasingly irrelevant bisexual pride badge and sports many deeply unfashionable, though functional, zips. It is, however, my most useful bag; carrying not only my valuables but the many happy memories of the places I’ve taken it to. It has taken me everywhere: parties, festivals, workplaces. **** me, it even made it to the other side of the world and back without incident or molestation. And now some ****stain in a West London pub with no CCTV nicks it, despite the fact that only a ****ing butt**** could overlook its total lack of value to anyone who isn’t me.
3. I can’t afford to have my possessions stolen. I have zero income and literally cannot ****ing afford it. Were you listening in when I was telling Steffi and Vicky about my new flat in SW7? Did my plummy tones fool you? Were you also listening when I told them about how it wasn’t my flat? That I’m signing on? What about the part about having to turn down temp work to concentrate on getting my first ****ing real job? You total ****ing ****wipe.
4. Luckily, I cycled into town with my mobile and keys in my pockets, but you still got my wallet. This is a total ****ing **** and a half: not because of the cards, which I cancelled straight away (that was still pretty ****ing irritating); but because it contained things like my National Insurance details, which, despite having entered multiple times on various forms in recent months, I am still incapable of remembering. Also gone is my driving licence (provisional, but still vital for ID purposes given that I look like a ****ing child), gym card, Boots card, donor card, card with scatological Norwegian phrases, and photos of all my loved ones. All replaceable: all deeply ****ing irritating.
5. You total ****meister, you took my diary. The beautifully marsupial, bright red Moleskine diary given to me by my friend Pete that I treasured despite his subsequent confession that it was an unwanted present from an ex. The diary that has the names and addresses of all my friends, without which I will be unlikely to be able to locate said friends ever again. The diary containing messages from all the people I met travelling. The diary charting my increasingly interesting menstrual cycle. Most importantly, the diary into which I have successfully jettisoned ALL information from my brain regarding every ***ING meeting, every drink, every job, every rehearsal I have for the next year, and without which I am completely ****ed beyond knowing that tomorrow I have to catch the 0842 from St Pancras International for Amelia’s wedding – if, of course, I can even get my ****ing tickets from those ****face machines at the station WITHOUT THE ****ING CARD I BOOKED THEM WITH. My lovely, informative, redder than red, entirely irreplaceable diary. You total ****tard ****face ****er ****job.
6. You turned my brief drink with friends into a prolonged episode of The Wire. Notting Hill police station is ****ing rough, man. I was scared. (This is not strictly true. I was seen straight away by a very nice Community Support Officer, who even offered to leave a suitably authoritative voicemail with the heavy breather who called twice in the hour after my bag was taken, who noted my details with admirable thoroughness, and reassured me that W11’s homeless community is posh enough to return the handbags they find when rooting through bins.) The point is, I was left stranded – stranded, I tell you – in deepest Notting Hill, with no cash, no phone – ok, I had my phone. And my keys, so you won’t be able to get my address from my diary and break into my parents’ house. Also, Steffi and Vicky took me to a very nice dinner after we looked through the bins. Plus I was able to use Vicky’s spare Oyster card to get me and my bike back to Ealing on the tube as my lights were taken with the bag. But the point is that YOU DIDN’T KNOW ANY OF THAT WHEN YOU TOSSED MY BAG OVER A WALL, YOU TOTAL ****ING ***LORD.
My only consolation is that the £3.50 in my wallet won’t be enough to buy you your next fix. I fervently hope that you’re forced to purchase substandard substances or paraphernalia and have a thoroughly subpar trip, you ****ing ****er’s paradise.
Sincerely,
Christina, Lady Dalrymple

 

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Got a minute?

D for Dalrymple has been thinking about itself a lot lately. Where is it going? What is it doing? What was it thinking? Is it sufficiently interesting? Do enough people read it? Do the people who read it like it? Do the people who read it and like it like it enough to tell their friends about it? Will Caitlin Moran ever read it and exclaim ‘finally! This is the blogger whom I shall make my apprentice and launch upon the world’?

These kind of questions are mostly posed in Dalrymple HQ on the days it checks the blog’s statistics page. This nifty little confidence make-or-breaker tells me how many of you visit, the days you do it on, the website you linked from, and the terms you used to search for me.

FYI, D For Dalrymple is visited by 10-15 people a day, a figure that spikes to 150 on the days new posts are uploaded. A fair proportion of these hits are probably re-clicks, so I’ll project a regular readership of around 100, built up over the six months of D For Dalrymple’s existence. S’OK, I suppose.

A lot of you come from Facebook, though traffic has increased from Twitter since the launch of the new sidebar widget. Then there are the clever people who click on links from their e-mail inboxes or the RSS feeds they’ve subscribed to. Well done, technophiles. Why can’t more people be like you?

A surprising number of readers appear to have been watching smutty Japanese cartoons directly before checking into Dalrymple Towers, and I occasionally entertain an unexpected contingent from a right-wing blog in the US. It’s possible that these groups are attracted – and, one must assume, extremely disappointed – by a WordPress-sponsored link.

If you’ve successfully Googled me, award yourself a bonus point for spelling ‘Dalrymple’ correctly. Meanwhile, the individual who searches ‘d for dalryple’ with such dedicated regularity should keep taking their supplements. Another lone searcher is consistently entertained by the direct hit scored by ‘Dalrymple Underwear’. Hey, creepy Googler – why not also try ‘Dalrymple Dates’, ‘Dalrymple Homosociality’, or simply ‘Kecklessness’?

Before you panic, the stats page doesn’t tell me who you are, your motives are for visiting, your opinions, ideas, or shoe size. All I have to go on for this kind of detail is the information that you consciously submit via comments on the blog itself, Facebook and Twitter, text and e-mail, and in person.

If you’ve been kind enough to comment, you’ll know that I’m pathetically grateful for the contact. But deluged with feedback I ain’t. A quick audit of regular commenters accounts for around 25 named individuals; most of whom are women, the majority of whom I’ve met in person, all of whom are magnificent. But who are the rest of you? And why the silence? We’re all friends here. And I need your help.

I’ve been thinking for a while now about the various directions D For Dalrymple might take in future posts. The current content, style and format – which I mentally refer to as ‘Rip-Off Bridget Jones Single Self-Hating Female Lite’ – is wordy, visually uninteresting, heavy on personal anecdotes, and light on topical issues. My aim is to identify and keep the good bits, jettison the crapola, and bring in new material – and perhaps some new readers.

This is where you come in. If it was up to me, I’d publish a 4000 word long list of things I hate, once a month, and that would be an end to it. Nevertheless, I sense that my intelligent, well-read, and – if I may say so – devastatingly attractive readership may favour more diverse content. I aim to harvest your collective genius, and this foolish reticence on your part simply won’t do.

I’ve been thinking about why you might feel shy about saying hi. It could be that you don’t know me very well and don’t fancy the commitment of correspondence. Maybe you’d prefer to comment anonymously. Perhaps you just can’t be arsed.

Anyway, I’ve created an online survey that should allow you to communicate your views anonymously and with minimal effort. I appreciate that not everyone enjoys filling out forms as much as I do, so made it nice and short. It may help to think of the time you spend filling it in as time saved from reading the usual 2000 word essay on how inept, fat and single I am. Added incentives shall be my heartfelt gratitude, a new and improved D For Dalrymple, and a special treat at the end. Click on the link below to go to the quiz.

 

 

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Crackin’

Loyal fans,

Be not overjoyed dismayed by the lack of words knocking around this post. I’ve been fiddling about with WordPress this afternoon and wanted to to see if I could embed video.

Turns out I can!

Nid wyf yn y swyddfa ar hyn o bryd.

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