ALL RIGHT, its OFFICIAL…. this, that and everything else’s playmate of the year

The votes are in; we have our ‘Miss 2008’ (circa 1669)

A HIGH-FLYING BIRD (with apologies to you-know-hugh)


Noses as always to the grindstone, all of us went peeping high and then some, because our toothsome titian-haired trove, pick of the pix Sansbra La Nuit, actually lives right up atop the ceiling of Vaux-le-Vicomte chateau! Lives? Lives it up all right, for sultry snoresome Sansbra just adores nightlife, and still loves to adorn her luxureferous locks with plenty of Flower Power. Talking of power, Sansbra’s sometime hobby was lovely-amateur-lady-pilot. Amateur lady or amateur pilot is anyone’s guess - but Sansbra certainly got her wings! ‘After which’, avers our languorous come-hitter houri,’I thought I’d take a nap.’ Forty hundred thousand winks haven’t paled that roses-‘n’-cream complexion, and the concerted opinion of her many admirers - and what a concert, ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik’ isn’t in it - is that a great future still yawns before her.

Hiding our blushes under a handy bushel in the formal park outside, we undertook to ask beauteous, somnolent Sansbra about her love life. Highflying' miss though she be, those cupidextrous lips certainly were not ceiled. Seems that after a first mordant never-to-be-forgotten date with the Sandman, she has spent most of her time in the arms of Morpheus. ‘He thimply won’t lethe me alone’ lisps our throttlesome odalisque. However, Sansbra’s really living for the day when she falls for, or on, Mr. Right. C’me up and see me s’metime, the air high around her seems to whisper, and don’t forget your ladder, daddy-boy.

Sansbra, 36-32-48, loves sports, ‘specially playing’possum – and best when that long feather duster comes ticklin’ around. But Mlle. La Nuit – Nightie Night to her best buddies – isn’t averse to intellectual pursuits too. She’s a ceiling wide authority on top-of-the-top-gear, that’s to say the three H’s, heads, hair and hats – from right up there she can tell a passing toupee from a purple rinse with her eyes closed. Talking of which, the only thing that really gets in Sansbra’s own hair is the perish-the-thought of whitewash – a real nightmare, she says, and enough even to disturb her Land of pulchritudinous Nod. ‘I well remember the day, comments languid Sansbra with a fetching little shudder, ‘when a lot of men came along with all the pots and ladders you ever saw. I thought then, ‘Sansie, this is it! The KO. Curtains, girlie, and great big dirty white ones at that!’ But it all turned out to be one of the biggest thrills of Sansbra’s whole life! The men were restorers! ‘Lovely gentlemen,’ cordially confirmed the sumbrous swanlet to our relieved ears, ‘and the feel of their camel’s-hair-brushes-mmmmmmmmmm! As much varnish as you liked too – bottles of it.’ Varnish is Sansbra’s favourite drink – ‘leaves you with a lovely clear head,’ she says. And her favourite cuisine, we ask? ‘Haute,’ of course, and her best- ever dish of all is a lovely big hairy spider, something outsize and on the bone of course, with lashings of cobweb ‘ a l’ancienne,’ please. No flies on Mlle. La Nuit!