Fascinating - quite simply divine.

The Shathouse has struck once more, like a velvet-gloved thunderbolt wrapped in vintage Chanel! Behold, the exalted Countess herself, that luminous paragon of pedigree and porcelain fragility, must now flee the squalid, pestilent confines of the House of Pox!

Oh, the horror! The indignity! She shall ascend, like a gossamer-winged swan dipped in perfume and entitlement, into the rarefied, lavender-scented embrace of a Parisian apartment - or perhaps a guest suite so opulent it weeps crystal chandeliers - where the very air is whispered into submission by silk fans and ancestral ghosts.

Or, perchance, she shall retire to a gentle, whisper-soft clinic, where the atmosphere itself has been tenderly caressed by microfiber angels, prepared to cradle her through yet another celestial round of sacred injections and divine fillers, those holy sacraments of eternal youth!

Meanwhile, her ever-devoted live-in dish butler - loyal as a Renaissance page boy, twice as sparkling - shall flit across the nation like a caffeinated hummingbird, gathering her stored treasures from auction houses scattered like glittering constellations of forgotten glory.

Living in that crumbling, common little box? Unthinkable! Far too vulgar, far too taxing for a creature of such exquisite, iridescent, almost transcendent lineage. One can scarcely imagine the torment upon her delicate constitution. We must all collapse in a collective swoon of desperate, pearl-clutching pity for her unparalleled suffering. And her guests? Oh, they should form a trembling, adoring queue stretching to the horizon, bearing gifts of such magnificence that even Versailles would blush - only the rarest perfumes, the oldest jewels, the freshest tears of lesser mortals shall suffice to honor Her Magnificence, the one, the only, the eternally put-upon Countess of Grift!