High life
Put to rights
Taki
WNew York ell, two down and two to go to tie with Jeffrey Bernard. Marriages, that is. Last week the mother of my children and I decided to have an amicable divorce. Not only do I get to keep all my used razor blades, I also have the right to retain three Invaluable books, namely, The Greek Up- heaval, High Life, Low Life and Princes, Playboys, and High Class Tarts. The breakthrough came early in the week, when my own attorneys informed me that adultery applies to men also, something which I swear on the Koran I was unaware of.
So, Alexandra and I sat down with them and in no time at all agreed on an amicable separation and divorce, with me getting Joint custody of our children — plus the property mentioned above — while she retains the house and some other inciden- . tals. Oh, yes, I almost forgot — I also get to keep my old Etonian tie, my Bullington Club bow tie, and my White's Club ring.
Needless to say, the moment I signed on the dotted line, she and I fell into each other's arms. We then went to the flicks, and held hands throughout Rocky XIV. In fact, ever since, it's been like the proverbial second honeymoon. All smiles, tender glances, and even lecherous shenan- igans late at night. I guess Alexandra and I are not meant to be married, but to have children and live in sin, which we did for 12 years, until she had the brilliant idea of changing her name from Schoenburg into a Taki.
I first met Alexandra when she was 16 years old, and being a friend of her parents I immediately gave chase. It took me a couple of years, but it was worth it. The first sign of trouble came when I went to Israel to cover the Yom Kippur war. As everyone knows, war does funny things to people. One day I ran into a very attractive second lieutenant in the Israeli defence force, and managed to get her up to my room. No sooner were we inside than the telephone rang. It was a worried Alexan- dra from Paris.
While I regaled her with stories of my bravery under fire, the second lieutenant got bored and lit a cigarette with her Zippo lighter, a lighter that made a noise like a bazooka rocket upon impact, which gave the game away. The result was that a Dear John letter arrived in Tel Aviv just as I was leaving the place, and it took all of a month to get Alexandra to speak to me again.
The next year, the mother of my chil-
dren to be, decided that a visit to a shrink would cure me of my philandering. I went along with her for the laughs, as they say, because I believe in shrinks as much as I believe in Gaddafi's innocence. When we entered the shrink's office, we found her lying down on a sofa, and looking the worse for wear. I thought it was a ploy, but Alexandra, who was a close friend of hers, was worried. The shrink's first question and last as it turned out — was why did I feel obliged to chase women. I answered truthfully by saying that I had yet to meet a woman I found attractive that I didn't feel like making love to. (A normal response, I thought.) But just as I said it, the shrink let out a primal scream that literally shook the windows, and collapsed further into the sofa. She then began to moan, which made me feel guilty as hell, and poor Alexandra almost hysterical with worry. It was, need- less to say, the end of the session, but not for the reason you think. The poor woman was passing a kidney stone as I spoke, but I didn't find out that particular detail until years later. Which meant that for all that time I thought that my confession had actually driven an eminent psychiatrist to collapse in anguish.
Now, however, things are back to nor- mal. Alexandra will live in Paris, I will live in London, my little girl will go to school in France, and John-Taki will enter boarding school in England as soon as he learns to spell his surname. We are once again one big happy family, and I wouldn't put it past us if the family suddenly grew larger. In the meantime, my moving to London will be a snip. Only five old Bics and three books. And my OE tie.
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