Poppy Purple

Poppy had always loved the colour purple in all its forms. From
palest lilac through violet to aubergine, she was hooked. She blamed a
lurid squeaky pig that she'd been given to play with as a toddler. It
had a sweet little face that she enjoyed bashing to make the squeaking
sound. She had discovered that it made an interesting noise when she
chewed its ears as well.

Her name derived from the time of her conception in a sunny garden
filled with poppies in rainbow colours. Her mother had been happy that
day, scarcely ever since. Her father had disappeared as fast as the
poppies faded.

She had tried to pass on her love of bright colours to her daughter,
but Poppy could not see past purple shades. Her mother's tastes had
become muted and now she dressed in drab colours. She had no success in
influencing her daughter. Purple was the only colour Poppy would have.
Her mother often wondered why.

All in all, the colour had happy memories for Poppy. When she was quite
small she used to have a violet party dress. She remembered the soft
velvet fabric and the prickly feeling of the artificial violets she
wore in her long fair hair.

She remembered playing in the tangle of old rhododendrons at the end of
the garden, their purple flowers buzzing with bees.

She used to like climbing the big lilac tree and being rescued from the
top branches among the scented flowers. She didn't really have to be
rescued. She could have climbed down just as easily as she had climbed
up, but the four year old Poppy would shout and shriek until a ladder
was fetched and someone would climb up to get her. She usually chose a
time when the teenage son of their neighbours was in the next garden
with his friends, and he would be coerced by his mother into climbing
up for her, egged on by his mates. It was then that she had decided
that she enjoyed being the centre of attention.

When she was five, she insisted on going to a school where the uniform
was a pretty lilac. She would have no truck with red blazers, or horror
of horrors, blue and green stripy ones. At school, her liking for the
limelight did not endear her to her teachers. If she saw a chance to be
in the spotlight, she took it. It didn't matter if she was in trouble
or had done something praiseworthy, as long as others were looking at
her. It didn't really matter to her if it was in envy or in
horror.

Her secondary school was chosen principally because of the rich
aubergine of the blazer. A grey skirt or trousers, which did not find
favour with Poppy, accompanied it, but the blazer was better than the
alternatives, which were bright yellow or very dark green. She took
great delight in wearing purple hair ornaments, which looked stunning
on her fair hair. Her underwear was in the same rich shade, which fact
won her not a little attention from all members of the class, male and
female.

She found that the best way to bring herself to everyone's notice was
to shine in her work. She did everything to the best of her ability,
and as she was a clever girl, this resulted in almost endless praise,
both at school and at home. Her mother could tell her friends, 'Poppy
will go far.' How prophetic. . .

At this time, Poppy discovered the phrase 'purple prose' and took it to
heart. If one straightforward word would do, Poppy used twenty of the
most flowery words she could think of. To begin with, the teachers were
impressed, but later when she was launching on longer and longer
diatribes, they'd had enough and tried to curb her verbose excesses.
Her school companions had long before learned just to ignore her, or
even wander away as soon as she started. It was they who called her
'Poppy Purple'.

When it came to the time when she had to choose which career path she
would take, there was a problem. She was asked if she wanted to become
a nurse, or a secretary or a teacher. She said no. She was even asked
if she would consider becoming a preacher, due to her proven record of
verbal communication. As the careers teacher remarked, they had endured
quite a few sermons from Poppy already. Poppy declined. Careers in the
media were suggested. 'Perhaps an actress?' her form teacher suggested.
There was a problem with that. She always attempted to upstage everyone
else in school productions and was incapable of playing any characters
except the lead. One time when she had been chosen to play the third
parlour maid, she made such an entrance with her tea tray that she took
all the audience's attention from the villain who was just on the point
of seducing the heroine.

She rejected the idea of becoming a flight attendant as she considered
the lugging of trolleys up and down the aisle far too strenuous for the
brief period of attention it would give her. Also there was the threat
of 'air rage'. Poppy was not a brave girl.

Eventually she decided. She would become a celebrity: an 'it' girl. The
trouble was she didn't have enough money to buy the right clothes and
go to the right parties. She took the only way open to her. She set
about marrying a minor local celebrity (a football player of little
talent but much public profile). She also got herself a column in the
local paper. It was called Poppy Purple's People and with it she got a
very useful press pass.

Her column was no problem. Readers seemed to want light airy drivel
about clothes and people, so Poppy could provide that with little
effort to herself. She enjoyed going to social events, waving her press
pass and making one of her grand entrances. She assumed everyone knew
her, and soon they did.

She met lots of people. She was usually the centre of attention, the
only person who was widely known there. She had realised her vocation.
She was a 'celebrity'. Now her career path opened in front of her and
she began searching around for opportunities in earnest.

The first obvious thing to do was to 'enhance' her hair colour. At that
time it was a platinum blond. Soon violet and lilac high lights
appeared in it and indeed there was no overlooking her with her
luminous hair and penchant for long flowery conversations. She brought
herself to centre stage wherever she went.

She enjoyed hearing people say 'There's Poppy Purple, look. . .'

Some were disparaging out loud, but this only reinforced her 'presence'
as people had to check out who was right in their opinion of her. She
didn't mind what they said, as long as they were talking about
her.

By this stage, she had tired of her muddy, sweaty footballer and looked
about for the best replacement. She decided on a television producer.
He was a bit on the old side and had the look of an ex-alcoholic, but
that delighted her. If she tired of him, all she needed to do was ply
him with booze.

At this time she took to wearing purple exclusively. Royal purple the
shade was called. She became known as Princess Poppy and thanks to her
husband's influence, appeared on various minor chat shows. That was
easy. Poppy could talk about anything at length. She warranted more
attention now, and attended all the 'best' social events, with or
without her husband. Sometimes she required his presence, just for the
look of it. Magazine articles were written about her and in- depth
treatises on her qualities. That required much anguish by the writers,
as Poppy didn't really have much depth. She was essentially a surface
person. She flitted about from this opening to this exhibition to this
cocktail party to that race meeting with aplomb. Her clothes were the
latest designer labels, and money seemed to be no object. The colour
purple was declared the 'new black'. Her favourite colours were always
in style, because designers had to please Poppy, or their collections
didn't receive the publicity her wardrobe always got.

It was only a few short months later that there was a setback. All the
free dinners and alcoholic parties were taking their toll. Poppy was no
longer the svelte fashionable hostess's favourite. She wasn't yet
tubby, but designers were no longer willing to give her their
creations. Somehow they didn't look so good in the magazine pictures
any more. She was getting less and less attention. She became depressed
and ate even more. Her husband was not so willing to dance attendance
on her every whim. What could she do?

Poppy went into politics. There seemed no alternative really. She would
be sure of attention that way. If interest in her pronouncements waned,
she could always arrange a scandal. That would ensure media attention.
The Tory party was renamed the Purple Party by the press. It didn't
mind. For once it seemed colourful and had the public notice. Poppy had
numerous spindoctors to assist her in attention grabbing. She didn't
really need their services, but to curb her excesses, party policy
declared them essential. She complied.

She was elected to a safe seat and went from strength to strength. She
gave long, long speeches at the drop of a hat, and soon exceeded the
attention span of most of her audiences. They were used to short sound
bites, with preferably a pause every now and then so that they could
have a cup of tea. The commercial break mentality it was called at that
time. Her public appearances were now few and far between. She had only
the House of Commons to rely on for her audiences. She could be as
boring as she liked there, she was among like-minded individuals who
enjoyed the sound of their own voices more than the necessity of making
a valid point.

Soon her party was in power. The image she had created for it was worth
more in an image conscious world than all the talent for public
speaking that she thought she had. All sort of tenuous links were
suggested with past glories. Perhaps Poppy was indeed connected with
royalty. She wore purple so well, didn't she? It was insisted that she
undertake some past life regression to prove her credentials.
Unfortunately the only past life that surfaced was a menial during the
dark ages. She did not want to be thought of as a pig herd and kitchen
drudge, so didn't mention past lives again,
deciding to stay in the here and now.

A problem arose with her image. Since the designers had stopped
supplying her with their latest creations, she was in danger of losing
her kudos as a fashion icon. It had even been said that black was the
new purple. Poppy could not let that go. There was only one thing to
do. She hired someone to steal the latest designs on the eve of one of
the principal fashion shows. She gambled that the designer would
forgive her when he realised all the publicity he would attract for the
new collection, worn, pre-show by Poppy Purple MP. She lost her gamble.
The scandal rocked the political world. It brought the government down,
in the way that these seemingly trivial things do. Poppy was finished.
When the news hit the streets, journalists and photographers besieged
her house.

Poppy was in shock. How could all these people turn against her, when
she had been so important to them for so long? Still, at least she was
still important. She enjoyed meeting the press, after all. She would
just explain it all to them. They would understand.

She was horrified when she realised that they were not going to be put
off by her usual blandishments. They asked awkward questions, such as
'Don't you think you're past it now?' and 'Why don't you just crawl
into some hole and leave the public of Britain in peace?'

Poppy couldn't stand this. They didn't want her in the public domain
any more. She gave a funny gasping sound, turned purple and died.