London can be a menacing place. For my protection I have been given a standard poodle. He, rather like myself, may look frou-froued and pom-pommed on the surface but inside is a ferocious animal. I won't have any of this nonsense about poodles being a ridiculous dog; scientists have recently proven them to be the most intelligent breed in the world.
Already, at five months, my puppy is showing remarkable signs of bravery and strength. He follows me into the sea to ensure my safety and the other day, while driving along, he threw himself out of the limousine window to sort somebody out just because he didn't like the look on their face. He growls and barks at people in unusual or oversized headwear and if any girls begin to act vaguely annoyingly he instantly bites them savagely. Yes, I am ever so proud.
In the first few weeks of having him he was often mistaken for a baby gorilla. Later when he was a little larger, when frolicking in the park many people thought he was a pet sheep. But now at five months he has grown so much that I might have to get him some reins and a saddle and call him a horse. Everybody says you can't have a dog in London, especially a big dog, but I say you can! Who wants small anything really? I am sick of miniaturisation, centralisation, minimalism, mini-skirts, narrow-mindedness, tiny train seats and thongs. Down with downsizing, life is too BIG. This season, I say let's wear big skirts, high heels, huge hats and enormous jewels, listen to music at full volume, drink long vodkas, dance all night long, have long holidays and ride around on humungous dogs.