A Word About The Diva

She is possessed of a  remarkable voice with  matchless* top notes and fruitful depths  (lemons, Chinese gooseberries, sloes), which an equally remarkable number of opera houses have seen no reason whatsoever to engage. In fact, her long and distinguished career as an opera singer has been almost entirely devoid of employment.

*Please make no attempt to match them against known notation.   Do not approach her with words such as flat or out of tune, just hold out a donut in the outstretched palm of your hand, then run like hell.

Her vast charm and enormous charisma  (her own evaluation), to say nothing of a  size twenty-something  figure and gargantuan certainty of her own importance in the world, fit her for no other occupation than Diva.

Her career as an unemployed Diva started young: at the age of four she threatened to throw her kindergarten teacher out of the window for failing to recognise her potential as Milk Monitor. Sadly the window was on the ground floor and it all came to nothing; Bridget Hollings got the job.  If she had just waited a year or two till she reached a classroom on the second floor, the world might be flocking to her Norma and Aida as we speak.

Approaching her f****-fourth year, and realising that her days for doing unsuccessful auditions for consumptive waifs and druids with a tree fetish may be drawing to a close, she is turning her previously untapped mind to find alternative ways of reaching her vast* and admiring** public.

Known affectionately to millions as Diva, her real name is The Diva. Like all true artists she is A-political, but knows instinctively that the world would be a great deal better place if she was running it.  To this end, she is adored leader of the Tiara Party and at the last election at least thirty million people did not vote for her.

Although thoroughly international in her failure to find engagements, she is based in England.

 * They are both public and weigh a large but undisclosed number of  stones.

** Her recitals are always greeted with awed silence; her audience knows instinctively that she would find applause vulgar, and to save her from the exhaustion of a curtain call they tiptoe out before the end.  


Elisabeth Wingfield would like it to make it quite clear that although she shares a computer with The Diva, she has never met the woman and bears no responsibility for any content, political opinions, or consumption of doughnuts appearing on these pages. 

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