Agony Aunt
 
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Dear Miriam,

Sorry to say, but this week the panel was unable to explore your question in full, as much to the “chagrin” of Morag!, Mindy and myself (i.e the panel), our erstwhile former french presidential personage (i.e Jacques), tottered-off for lunch while the panel engaged in elevenses.  No sooner had we dunked our crumpets in our perfumed Earl Gray, than Jacques was down the stairs like a whippet at the mouth-watering prospect of fried extra-forced-fed goose liver pate in a madeira and “confit” onion reduction, veal kidney “bourgignon” with a moreilles mushroom veloute, a quaff or ten of the finest and rarest Giverny-Chambertins, and obscenely opulent perigordian truffle-coated rose petal macarons, doused in “bonhommie” and lashings of the onctuoustest bas-armagnac digestifs...  Only to be poured by his chauffeur sheepishly back up that self-same modestly, yet elegantly appointed, staircase of Rentanirishman.com’s “Hausmannian” offices (just off the Champs-Elysees), as the noble hallway grandfather clock sternly gonged four thirty in the afternoonish.  The panel’s understandable ire and umbrage was brashly brushed aside in typical gallic, methylated-breathed fashion, and vintage, flamboyant, “Chiracian”, “Je ne sais quoi”; an extravagant swish of a flailing right arm as he collapsed presidentially and aplomblessly on to the corporate velour “chaisse-long” for a devout and protracted bought of reverberated snoring, was all that the panel could extract in guise of apology for his childishly gastronomique behaviour. So without further ado, and with much dignity, restraint and resolve, the remaining triumvirate returned unperturbed to our cucumber sandwiches and Darjeeling, determined to mull over your vexed predicament, dear vexed Miriam, in next week’s doubtlessly action-packed installment.

The Panel... (minus Jacques).



Dear Denis and Guests,

I am a moustachioed, unhappy Scotswoman, suffering from sheep-shearer’s knee and conjunctivitis of the left ear.  Yet I have an active life as a painting-by-numbers teacher at the local prison halfway-house and old-folks colostomy-bag-recharging centre.  I met a man who said he wants to marry me, but he is only one and a half feet tall and lives in Sweden.  
Do you think I will ever be happy, or will I always carry the burden of this hairy-unbridled passion?
Our Celebrity Panel Features:


Jacques Chirac
Mindy the Dog
Morag! Me Miriam, 
DUMBARTON, 
SCOTLAND