It isn't all glamour, being the Ambassador's wife. Sure, a cushy posting to London, Paris or Rome might
be very high-life and the latest collections from Milan, but there's always the chance of being shuffled
around the bureaucratic roulette wheel and ending up posted to Outer Flipineckestan, or wherever they were. No designers, no superstores, no tennis tournaments, no champers, no chocolates and precious little in the way of edible food or drinkable water. The local brew tasted like Yak urine, and the local delicacy actually was Yak urine. Yuck. Plus there's always the chance some rampaging riff would kidnap you from the
amabassdorial "complex" (well, shack) and hold you for ransom until darling hubby got on the satellite
phone and arranged for the dismantling of the whole apparatus of Western Imperialist Capitalism by
midnight tonight... or got his hands on a thousand non-forged US dollars, whichever was easier.
It wasn't even much of a fright. It isn't all glamour, being the Ambassador's wife...
She wasn't really worried about the kidnapping. The local tribes were so skint that a thousand
greenbacks would see them in high heaven for the next six months, and she hardly begrudged them
that. What she DID begrudge is that some horrible hairy oaf had stolen her Jimmy Choos, and there
were simply NO decent shoe-shops in the entire COUNTRY! She hated to imagine whether her exquisite
footwear was destined for some grubby slattern from the local tribe, or worse yet was a little
"keepsake" for the hairy oaf to remember her by...
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