More Grist for that ol’ Mill.
Blogging? It’s still a bit of a mystery to me. What to say? Of course I can wax lyrical about A Widow’s Gamble, the second in my Clifton Chronicle series which will be launched for all to see on 28th October and, as it is a subject close to my heart, perhaps that’s what I should do. But not today, because we all like a good ol’ gossip and today I am going to gossip about Simon Le Bon’s undergarments. That’s right, THE Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran fame.
So pin your ears back and I will tell you a true story.
Once upon a time, in the Halcyon days of yesteryear – or to be precise, the 80’s – a group of wandering minstrels set sail from the shores of Britain in their very expensive yacht. Like that other oft talked about mariner, The Flying Dutchman, they wandered the oceans, searched the seven seas, until they found Mykonos, an island where life is lived with Gay abandon, an island which is beloved by the international set and renowned for it’s beauty, nude beaches, jewellery shops and extortionally priced nightlife.
Days of sipping cocktails on deck while looking out over the Mediterranean and Aegean seas had taken their toll, and half-crazy with cabin fever those wandering minstrels hove to in the island’s tiny harbour and stuffing their salt caked smalls into canvas bags they made haste to the nearest laundry service.
This is where I enter the story for it was my launderette – 10 industrial machines and 40 lines in the garden (yard) to be filled daily. And yes, sometimes things did get lost, especially socks!
I loved it when fellow countrymen called by to laugh and joke with and they didn’t disappoint. I took the offered bags and set about doing the wash having absolutely no notion that the garments I was handling (if somewhat gingerly, remember they’d been days at sea) belonged to none other than Simon Le Bon and his Duran Duran chums. It wasn’t until a star struck neighbour rushed to tell me just who the English boys, who I thought were really nice, actually were.
That evening they called by to collect and the conversation went like this.
Me: “So, what are your names?”
Simon: “ I’m Simon, and this is Jon, and this is… Where do you go in the evenings?”
Me: “I work in a bar.”
Simon and Jon: “Where? We’ll come.”
And they did.
Oh my! They danced the night away drinking Margarita’s which I’d made and wearing clothes which I’d washed, AND STILL I didn’t let them know I KNEW!
Finally, after an enthusiastic rendition of Bye Bye Miss American Pie, they bade their farewells and sped into the night.
And that was that. Or almost.
Sometime that night they hauled up anchor and set sail for other lands.
Now, two and a half decades on they have, without a doubt, no memory of a launderette in Mykonos, wheras I have the glorious memory of a day I became privy, nay, familiar with Simon Le Bon’s undergarments. A memory I’ve shared with you.
Oh! And in case you are wondering those undies were scarlet, and made of silk.
More grist for the literary mill. I guess. Ta ra for now.