Diamond geezer

So I may have to reconsider my frustratingly one sided relationship with supermodel Naomi Campbell

Last night she turned up at my apartment again muttering something about a diamond.

I figured she was in trouble once more, as that's the only time she ever wants to see me. I put the kettle on and got my secret supply of Hob Nob biscuits out, knowing that Noami always wants to stress eat in times of media persecution. I tried to breach the issue of our friendship, but she didn't listen and just wanted to talk about her problems. She's very 'Me, me, me' if I'm honest.

Apparently this time, the newspapers are accusing her of accepting a blood diamond off the former president of Libya Charles Taylor. Worse than that, it's being said she is refusing to testify at the Hague, where prosecutors have claimed he used uncut diamonds to fuel a campaign of terror in Sierra Leone.

As the story goes in the media, Noami was staying at her pal Nelson Mandela's house in 1997 and there was a knock on her bedroom door in the middle of the night and a mahoosive diamond gift was given to her. She is supposed to have gone down to breakfast in the morning and told all the other guests about it. This is all according to someone who was there called 'Mia Farrow'. As Naomi says "Who is this Mia Farrow anyway?"

Naomi says she does have a large uncut diamond, but Adam Clayton from U2 gave it her when they were dating. I asked her if she was sure, as that band are known for being a bit tight and also are quite into the whole human rights thing. Naomi just made a face and said that Adam went into H. Samuel's in Dublin and asked for the biggest diamond they had.

She says the whole thing is worse now, because she is being accused of losing her temper again-this time with a TV reporter. She says she definitely didn't do that,  as she has been doing really well with her anger management program. She says she is innocent and no one can prove otherwise. I asked her if the interview was recorded on camera, at which point she furrowed her brow and there was a really long pause.

Then she yelled "FUUUUUCK!", threw the rest of my Hob Nobs against the kitchen wall and stormed out.
                    

Where's Naomi?

Is it 20 years of constant hunger that's made Naomi Campbell so bloody angry?

As I write, the supermodel is 'on the run' in Manhattan after supposedly socking her limo driver in the head. New Yorkers will empathise. I want to smack cabbies in the head most days, especially when they insist on getting the cross street before you've even sat your arse down in the back seat.

So where is Naomi right now? Where do you go when you're the world's first Supermodel fugitive? I suggest the following:

1) In a branch of Foot Locker-finding some more suitable shoes for being on the run. She can't leg it from the cops in Prada platforms.
2) TopShop in SoHo-Every good fugitive needs a new outfit. Naomi could get a little slice of home and some leggings from the Tall section of the British high street favourite.
3) Natural History Museum-at the cavemen exhibit asking them why displays of anger were acceptable in their day, but so frowned upon now.
4)A branch of Crumbs Bakery-They have the biggest and best cupcakes in NYC. Even supermodels need to comfort eat in times of stress.
5)On a train to Queens. No one will look for her in the boroughs surely?

Oh poor Naomi. We shouldn't judge her, she's just a down to earth Laaandan gal who got pulled into all this glitz and glam craziness from an early age innit? She don't know no betta'. All she really wants to do is help the people in Haiti and Chile too. I don't want them to suffer anymore than they already have, so if you're reading this Naomi, you can come and hide out in my apartment-I have Rescue Remedy.

Just don't even think about losing your shit with me-I'm a Cardiff girl-we fight back.




*

Raging bull

Today I lost it at The American Post Office.

The full force of my special sparkly festive edition wrath came down on the scary spiky haired woman at the counter who threw my credit card back at me. Really threw. She threw it so hard it bounced back over the counter at 20 MPH before narrowly missing a suicidal dive off the edge. The reason for this? Because I had earlier refused to go to the back of the 20 minute line. The reason I refused? Because I did not accept that filling in the wrong size of custom form was reason enough to do this. So I stubbornly stayed at her counter and filled in the correct form, while enjoying the tropical setting of the post office central heating system. All the time she bitched and moaned about me as she served other customers.



''You are very rude!'' I say in my poshest British accent.
''Next!'' she yells over my shoulder.
''Excuse me? I am serious. I just needed your help and you have been impatient and rude.''
''NEXT in LIIIIIIINE!"
''Oh my god" I continue with the entire queue watching the free Christmas entertainment "You can't treat me like this! I am a customer and you work here. What is your name? I am going to complain!"
"Oh you want my name?"
"Yes I do!"
''My name is (pause to laugh with her colleague)...uh...Jamie. Yeah, my name is Jamie."

I narrow my eyes to show my distrust, although Jamie could be her name, being as it's kind of unisex and because she has lesbian hair.

My wrath seems somewhat wasted on this woman. My voice may be loud in Cardiff, but in New York it's normal level. The woman continues to yell 'NEXT!' shrugs her shoulders, flicks her lesbian hair and brushes off my wrath. She is wrathed out.

Customer service is for those who may actually live in some fear of loosing their jobs. American Post Office employees at Christmas are not those people.

This is not my first blow up since arriving. If you are already a fairly passionate person then New York has the ability to turn you aggressive. If you are already aggressive then it can turn you into a sociopath. If you are already sociopathic, you're fucked. On a good day I fall into the second category, therefore I spend a lot of my days fighting people in the service industry. There are too many blow ups to account- they include, but are not limited to:




1) Yelling ''I JUST WANT TO BUY TAMPAX!'' in Duane Reade when I was told I couldn't switch queues to get served faster.
2)Shouting ''Do you like your fucking job?!'' at a cashier who threw my groceries at me at the 'gourmet' market on 14th street. Gourmet just means they charge more. It does not mean they stop employing cholitas with attitude from the Bronx.
3) Nearly getting beaten up by a taxi driver because I refused to shut the taxi door in protest at his rudeness. I just wanted my bag out of the boot. He didn't know what a boot was. I had to run away from this one, as he looked like he might have a baseball bat in his boot/trunk.

Rudeness is rampant here. The streets are mean in more ways than one way. New Yorkers can be abrupt, cold and couldn't care less. They can also funny and talkative, helpful and exceptionally kind.

New Yorkers are a bit like the city they live in, contradictory at best, schizophrenic at worst.