Poor old Prince Giacomo Bonanno di Linguaglossa, who’s launched a legal case against his Belarusian girlfriend, Tanya Yashenko, having previously showered her with cash, cars, a share in a bed-and-breakfast (just what every girl wants), and so on.
His lawyers claim he was suffering a condition where “falling in love confuses the brain to the point of rendering a person incapable of understanding a situation” when handing over these trinkets. But the plot thickens, as, according to his Facebook page, the pair are still together. “I love you,” he wrote last week, “a flower that makes me feel calm. I’m proud to be with you.” Eh? Does someone need to send in a rescue party, or is Prince Giacomo, in fact, perfectly all right?
Early days yet, but this story is shaping up to be one of my favourites of the year.
Drop the dreadful dessert and stick with sticky pudding
Has there ever been a more charmingly named competitive event than the Queen’s Platinum Pudding Competition?
I’m not the sort of snob who shudders at those who say “toilet” or “couch”, but I have to confess that “dessert” makes my teeth itch.
“Pudding” is a lovely plump word, possibly derived from the Germanic root “pud”, which meant “to swell”, and it conjures up images of steaming sponge splashed with butter-coloured custard.
“Dessert” is a dull, desiccated thing that smacks of bad hotel buffets.
When Claire Foy, as the Duchess of Argyll, referred to “dessert” in the recent BBC drama A Very British Scandal, it was the one bum note in the script. The duchess would definitely have been a pudding girl. As am I.
