I’ve been crying today. Not for all the usual reasons – a stray grey hair; how my withered hands clash with my £600 white shirts; the length of waiting lists at Hermes and my sudden slip from prime position; the suffering of donkeys; the children in Darfur (Note to self: must check with darling George and dear Angelina that it’s still Darfur, heaven forefend I get that wrong).No my dear readers, my beloved Spiffy has died. I am in such a funk I could only manage 20 minutes of my morning moisturising ritual and I haven’t even body brushed for 24 hours. I can’t let people see me like this, in fact it is as much as I can do to write all my feelings down in excruciating detail to keep my editors happy and the pay cheque rolling in.For those who don’t know about Spiffy, let me tell you about him. I might have a ultra glamorous job combined with a very messy but ultimately profitable private life, but my pets are my true friends. Some might say my only friends. When I was a child I dreamt of being Dr Doolittle and as I have grown up I have managed to capture, or should I say adopt, many animals that have shared my 10-bedroom, minimalistically-decorated, humble abode nestled in the heart of A-list London.I love animals, they are loyal, never leave you, never cheat and mine are always there, happy to listen to me talk about myself as I nibble on my daily diet of six blanched almonds. They never judge.Spiffy was the best of the bunch. Some people might say that a hamster is a nothing pet, but they just hadn’t met Spiffy. He was an inspiration to me after my first husband (aka Significant Ass-Wipe Other: The First) left me for an actress – and for that ladies and gentleman read once played an asthmatic stripper in Holby City and now spends most of her time making lattes in Notting Hill. Anyway, I digress.I decided to get Spiffy after reading about how Madonna had welcomed a host of Mongolian hamsters into her family and got them blessed at a special Kabbalah party. For me that was too showy, but it did get me thinking that hamsters are the perfect pet.Small enough to fit in your handbag, they come in such cute colours – as long as you don’t get the ginger ones – and they are so soft. Spiffy was always good when I cried. Some people have said I do that a lot, the crying I mean, but I find four “me” cries a day is a great way to get rid of excess water that causes such unsightly bloating. I mean the alternative is eating one of those yoghurts that the middle classes are always advertising and that is just not me. But when I cried, Spiffy always knew what to do. I would pick him up and sob into his fluffy coat. He would happily soak up my tears, I knew he loved it because his little legs would be kicking with joy. It gave him such pleasure to comfort me.For three years we lived like this. Dates I would bring home thought it was strange that Spiffy had a diamond-encrusted cage specially commissioned from Harrods and that I would give him treats of foie gras every Sunday, but they were wrong.Then last Sunday, just after nibbling on his dinner – he always left the parsley on the side of the plate – and just as I was in full swing re-reading the emails between SAWO: The First and his acting barista outloud, Spiffy started to race around the floor as if looking for an escape. But he couldn’t have been doing that. I thought like one those dogs in Hollywood movies he was trying to tell me of incoming danger. I caught up to him crying “Spiffy, Spiffy? What is it my love? Come back here, sit down and relax next to me, we’re only up to the reaction to the second date.”But Spiffy wouldn’t be told, always protecting me to the last he started banging his head against the skirting boards. It was the third thump that did it and he fell, taking his last breath.Reader, I wailed, I stopped to remove my cute grey cashmere ballet-style cardigan, personally designed for me by Marc Jacobs and wrapped Spiffy in it.The world is a lesser place without him, and only now I feel ready enough to exfoliate and book in for my weekly spa session . He would want it this way.
NEXT WEEK: Find out how Madonna’s comforting words helped ease my pain, how Spiffy’s state funeral went, but, witness my grief-filled pig-out at the wake – four salted almonds and a piece of steamed pak choi. The shame
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