Elle Field

The chair, if you’re interested, is the most succulent and soft, black leather chair your derrière will ever enjoy. So Hot, I wildly declared, when I tried it out in Harrods’ furniture department last week, much to the sales assistant’s disgust. This turned into quick delight when her colleague realised who I was... When the nation read last weekend’s column – Not Hot included snooty sales staff – I had a Todd chair waiting for me at the office on Monday, plus another one was sent to my home, both on the house. Mitch Todd’s PR team must read my column.

This happens a lot. And no, I’m not a clairvoyant. That would be my sister. I wish I was joking, but my parents really called her Claire and our surname is Voyante. I know. My mother thought Claire sounded pretty with the surname: forgivable. I suspect going through the rigours of labour can send a person a bit loopy – but my father? He should have known better, a sentiment still applicable to this day with his behaviour. 

Claire can’t wait until marriage allows her to change this crime against an innocent babe-in-arms. Until then though she’ll pronounce “Claire” in the flattest English-tone she can muster up (hard with our embedded South African twang), then pronounce Voyante in an exaggerated Italian accent: “Voy-on-tayyyyyy” instead of “Voy–ont”. 

She gets very vexed about these sorts of personal injustices, but she isn’t the only one to suffer. I was named Angelica, Angelica Dawn Voyante, to give you my full moniker, all because I looked like an angel at birth and was born at dawn. I kid you not. With parents like these and their naming skills, you must think that they too suffered... no. They have nice normal names: Rupert and Isabelle. Lucky them. 

Everyone calls me Geli though, as in “jelly”. Haven’t you read my column? Geli Voyante’s Hot or Not. Food nicknames are so Hot and will remain so as long as I keep this job. I am Britain’s answer to a non-violent dictator, except I dictate the things that really matter each and every day with my mini-column of the hottest news stories – deciding the topics to be discussed at the dinner table – and then via my Saturday column. 

On Saturdays I control the more serious issues of fashion, style and, more importantly, taste, one limit I have to stick to, but I’m excellent at pushing boundaries because nasty bosses are so Not Hot. Seriously, I have that much influence. If I sneeze, everyone rushes in front of me to catch a cold if I declare colds are, errr, in fact, Hot. 

You’d think with this level of power, I’d be happy, but I’m not. Truth be told, I’m a little… bored. Even worse, I’m a little lonely, or more like a lottle lonely, as I like to say. It’s hard at the top – ask any dictator – and the worst bit? Keeping up the pretence. The spectacularness. Call it what you will, it’s exhausting. Who knew true boredom could be so draining? Who knew pretending could be such hard work? Now I know why actors take so many vacations. 

It takes me about fifteen minutes a day to declare what’s Hot or Not for my mini-column. Two simple picks. It takes me longer to do my hair. I don’t even have to justify my choices to a superior, let alone the lovely British public. I just pick, and here’s how I do it (sorry for shattering the illusion). Basically, I cheat and read the BBC website (hurrah for instant news!) and that’s the basis of my declaration. Never mind that we might take a different angle to the Beeb at the paper, it’s still my source because have you read my newspaper? I need a dictionary on hand if I ever flick through it. My Hot Pick gets put at the top of the front page in red letters with the page number, the Not story at the bottom in blue.

Admittedly, my Saturday column is a little trickier, but it’s not exactly deconstructing Prime Minister’s Question Time. No, I’m merely commenting on fickleness and, before I know it, it seems a trend is set or a reputation broken with no need for scientific studies or opinion polls. To our readership, my word is final.

It’s quite the position of responsibility and one I’m stuck with. I think I will always be known as the Hot or Not girl, defined by it for the rest of my career. Even my tombstone will read: Angelica “Geli” Voyante, beloved trendsetter. Death? Not Hot.

Yet, it doesn’t sound right. Why won’t anyone realise that there is more to me than this fickle persona I have inadvertently become?