This is the personal diary of myself Celia Fiennes, 58 years young at time of writing and I don’t care who knows it. Following the tragic disappearance of my husband and his secretary in Chihuahaha, Mexico, I have refused to withdraw myself from company for the customary six months of mourning.
Instead, I have penned a modest account of my home town, Luton. I have diligently traversed its every nook and alley, riding sidesaddle on the back of my trusty ‘toke’, my 1970s Honda motor scooter.
This is not easy in widow’s weeds, but I know my late husband would have approved.
My nephew has cleverly adapted my Honda carburettor to run on old cooking oil recycled from fish & chip shops. Many a time have my friends giggled that, when I take off my veil, I smell like a scampi platter! But I think we cannot do enough to save the planet.
My account is sincere and truthful, although sadly limited by my ill-health and penury. In the regrettable absence of my husband’s body, his insurance company refuses to pay out. (Rest assured. I have taken it to the Court of Human Justice in the Hague.)
Meanwhile, I urgently need funds to continue my travels. Watch out, Norwich Union. I shall meet you yet. At the Hague!
Please note, charitable donations are tax deductible and it will cost you nothing to remember me in your will. Meanwhile, any small contribution you can afford now will be greatly valued. The simplest thing you can do is to kindly order a copy of my book Secret Luton, out very shortly. Thank you!
You will discover how to do this by clicking here.
