I left school with no qualifications and much hope of succeeding in the real world.
My first job was in a beauty salon - making tea and sweeping old ladies hair up. I then worked in a florists, a bakers and a fish and chip shop, where I was spotted one day by a photographer who persuaded me to enter the East Kent heats of the Miss Chip contest at the Margate Winter Gardens. Beating over sixty other girls to the title, I won a one-thousand pound modelling contract and briefly became the face and spokesperson for the UK fisheries industry.
It was during this time that the photographer became my agent as well as my lover. Away on a conference about cod, I returned early to find him sharing our bed with my PA and discovered he had plundered all my earnings on fast cars, gambling and visiting country gastro-pubs. The thieving rat had also been selling on private and intimate snaps of me to the local rags and celebrity websites, a final act of betrayal that cost me my Miss Chip crown and major sponsorship deals with the Fryers Guild and a Korean fishing-reel manufacturer.
Broke and on the verge of bankruptcy, I gave up fish as well as the bright-lights of Westwood Cross and returned to the streets of Mill Hill. Sleeping on friends sofas, I soon found my feet servicing older, ex-military gentlemen from a phone-box on Walmer Green.
To begin with I dealt with the administration. With everything that had gone on, I had built up a lot of anger and pent-up aggression I needed to get out of my system. It suited most of the old boys fine but some of their hearts weren't in it like mine and I soon came to the same conclusion as my partner Veshka, that is was safer leaving that side of the business to her.
In a few months I was making more money than I ever did as the face of fresh fish. We moved into a beautiful Georgian house with a large cellar on Deal seafront and opened a private drinking-club upstairs for members and special friends down from London at weekends.
It was about a year later that my ex re-appeared on my doorstep, threatening to blackmail me over a sex-tape he claimed to have secretly filmed in a Paris hotel room. It showed me, he said cavorting with another model in a mermaid costume I'd once worn as a part of a doomed European tour to promote the crab stick. I had nothing to hide, so I called his bluff and that was the last time I saw him.
You say he's missing? Knowing him, he's probably sitting in a gastro-pub somewhere, eating a plate of chunky-chips.
My first job was in a beauty salon - making tea and sweeping old ladies hair up. I then worked in a florists, a bakers and a fish and chip shop, where I was spotted one day by a photographer who persuaded me to enter the East Kent heats of the Miss Chip contest at the Margate Winter Gardens. Beating over sixty other girls to the title, I won a one-thousand pound modelling contract and briefly became the face and spokesperson for the UK fisheries industry.
It was during this time that the photographer became my agent as well as my lover. Away on a conference about cod, I returned early to find him sharing our bed with my PA and discovered he had plundered all my earnings on fast cars, gambling and visiting country gastro-pubs. The thieving rat had also been selling on private and intimate snaps of me to the local rags and celebrity websites, a final act of betrayal that cost me my Miss Chip crown and major sponsorship deals with the Fryers Guild and a Korean fishing-reel manufacturer.
Broke and on the verge of bankruptcy, I gave up fish as well as the bright-lights of Westwood Cross and returned to the streets of Mill Hill. Sleeping on friends sofas, I soon found my feet servicing older, ex-military gentlemen from a phone-box on Walmer Green.
To begin with I dealt with the administration. With everything that had gone on, I had built up a lot of anger and pent-up aggression I needed to get out of my system. It suited most of the old boys fine but some of their hearts weren't in it like mine and I soon came to the same conclusion as my partner Veshka, that is was safer leaving that side of the business to her.
In a few months I was making more money than I ever did as the face of fresh fish. We moved into a beautiful Georgian house with a large cellar on Deal seafront and opened a private drinking-club upstairs for members and special friends down from London at weekends.
It was about a year later that my ex re-appeared on my doorstep, threatening to blackmail me over a sex-tape he claimed to have secretly filmed in a Paris hotel room. It showed me, he said cavorting with another model in a mermaid costume I'd once worn as a part of a doomed European tour to promote the crab stick. I had nothing to hide, so I called his bluff and that was the last time I saw him.
You say he's missing? Knowing him, he's probably sitting in a gastro-pub somewhere, eating a plate of chunky-chips.
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