Karl's Night

Since I have an email address now, I have been getting emails from all over the place. Every day, my assistant for the computer prints them all out on specially made, tweed Chanel paper. I then make Oragami creatures out of them. Actually I don't remember what I was going to say.
I made a Oragami Chanel suit out of someone's emails today. It was some people from Niagara selling fake Louis Vuitton bags ("now you too can own luxury!"). Maybe I should send it to Marc Jacob's offices. Someone told me this sort of email is called "Spam" which I thought was a sort of food for poor people. Can they email food now?

Anyway, some young lady is interviewing me at some point. Oh, I'm interviewing her. Something like that, hmm? Maybe she should interview me, because I'm bound to be more interesting.

I'm sitting at the dinner table of the French president, whose name I don't remember. The knives and forks are quite good. I quite like these knives and forks. Not sure what I'm going to do with them since I don't eat. I'm going to mail them to my house, and then mail them back.
"Excuse me Carla, do you have a envelope?"
"Oh sure, here you go"
"Thankyou. Your hair is so naive, hmmm?"
"Yes. Thankyou?"

Now I'm exiting the room ("where are you going Karl?" "to Champange land dear!") and depositing the knife and fork I subtly borrowed into the envelope. I write "Karl Lagerfeld" on it, sign it and send it off. In France, only the poor use stamps- so a good way to become rich is to not use stamps, huh?
I put the envelope into the mailbox, and wave my white handkerchief at the passers by. I've seen this done in American movies. They wave out onto the street, and suddenly a yellow car appears out of nowhere. Here in the park I'm in now, it doesn't seem to be happening, so I instruct one of the assistants hoovering around me to get a car to take me to my next social engagement.