She is more ubiquitous than a WAG or a reality TV contestant – never out of the papers or magazines and all because she has made a (presumably lucrative) career out of whingeing. First off she moaned about her husband – someone who was considerably younger than her and sounded like a total nightmare – selfish to a fault, obsessed with Yoga, messing up her beautiful-sounding Georgian townhouse and not loving her pets enough. All this was quite entertaining for a while and I imagined that she was either making most of it up or exaggerating wildly – and maybe she was, maybe she wasn't; who knows?
Anyway, after a while, she divorced the husband, ditched the Islington house and buggered off to the country to live in bucolic isolation on a farm on Exmoor. This was when I started to feel really sympathetic to her plight.
She spewed out endless column inches about her ghastly, draughty house, the leaks in the roof, the lack of heating, the cobwebs, the dust. She droned on about her fast-dwindling cash reserves because she does feckin’ stupid things like feed her cats on organic prawns. She claimed that her neighbours all hated her for being an incomer and wittered on in a self-aggrandising fashion about how much employment she had brought to local people in her use of (amongst others) an holistic Vet (WTF?)
She griped about the winter and the weather generally and not being able to get out and about in her BMW (poor love). She told how she spent most of her time in bed because she couldn’t afford to heat her dump of a white-elephant home.
And then she decided to sell up. And her house appeared on the internet.
Take a look. Your heart will bleed for her.