Introduction and Warning:
It is a long time since I sat on the harbour planks near the Russian ships and drank champagne out of my pink stiletto, but I have not forgotten. So there was a rat on the planks - and there were sailors with a welding gun whose sparks singed my hat. It was all part of the fun. Now, we are older. I am not talking here about the glorious silver paper crackly voiced state of ancienthood, but the less storied state of older middle age, which, if you are not becoming a Grande Dame, is an excruciating, slow death of the soul. We are not going to go there. We are going together, in this little tome, to the queendom of How to be a Grande Dame, instead of becoming the insignificant little old lady we sometimes fear becoming in the dead of night.