A letter arrived from Lord Primark today. How I wooped for joy! Or possibly it might have been my whooping cough. The Letter explained how he recently set up his own clothing emporium for the poor, and would I like to come to the opening?
Would I? WOULD I!? Of Course not, I might get poor germs! But I decided it would be rude not to (I am a Lady, after all), and thus headed down to the shop, in deepest, murkiest London. In order to ensure that I did NOT get Poor Germs, I wrapped myself in bubble wrap, soaked in smirnoff ice (a reputable cure for poorness), and held my nose the entire time.
Lord Primark was delighted to see me (who wouldnt be? I'm VERY rich), even though I smelt a bit like smirnoff ice, and showed me round the shop. It was like a normal shop for ladies, only all the clothes were dirty and ragged and made by tiny children in India, or another glorious Empire country.
"Lord Primark", says I, through heavy nasal blockage "are you purposfully exploiting and ripping-off the poor, by selling them shoddy and badly made items?"
"Yes, yes I am! Muhahahahah!" He said, laughing and twiddling his moustache in an evil fashion
"How wonderful!" I said, and off we roared in his sports carriage.
On a more crucial note, it has been discovered that my Ladies' Maid and the Head Gardner are having an affair!!! I didnt even know poor people HAD genitals!
More soon, dear reader, I have to go and stare mournfully out of a window now.