Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Bonnie?

Bonnie Croydon nee Boulter is the Pucci-clad, embarrassing (but infuriatingly fascinating) Courtney Love of Toronto's Old-Money, philanthropic, lunch-at-the-Four-Seasons set. After a sherry or two, if you broach the subject of your aunt, Rosedale matrons will whisper to you that Bonnie "behaved badly" during the '60s and '70s with "several" (at least 50) of their husbands' younger brothers and associates, and put a number of important men into "potentially awkward positions" (draw your own conclusions). Bonnie's past accounts for not only her comfortable position in life (in those days one would have spoken of "gifts," though with the blatancy of today, that leaves nothing to the imagination, one would say "extortion"), but also her curious absence, even now, from the really important bridge nights ("Mrs. Croydon does not play cards," is, still, Mrs. von Kraus's transparent, polite fiction, which every aging society barracuda knows how to interpret) and Nutracker-themed Christmas soirees ("Bonnie understands," everyone smiles, disconcertingly baring their teeth).

Does this mean Bonnie is depressed or that she lives in isolation, hermetically sealed in her modest, five-bedroom row house on Cottingham Street, growing daily odder, meaner, and more unkempt amidst her Chagalls and her memories? No! Your multilingual, EU passport-holding aunt (probably another "gift") is in Europe for half the year, where she is the darling of what is left of literary society in Paris, London, Athens, etc, not to mention of gay men in Ibiza, for whom she combines the winsome pathos of Judy Garland with Joan Crawford's dark-lipsticked chutzpah. She has fascinating, improbable connections with famous families -- little Prince Horst of Liechtenstein is her illegitimate Godnephew, whatever that means; and the mayor of Palermo played tennis with her once in 1981, and was so poetically smitten with her that he not exactly gave, but bequeathed to her in perpetuity the exclusive use of a beautiful farmhouse in rural Sicily along with the housekeeping services of several generations of black-clad Rosas and Marias.

This begs the question of why, from August until just after Christmas, she comes back to Toronto, where she seems to have no friends, only social rivals -- fascinated in spite of themselves -- and people she air-kisses at benefits. Toronto, after all, is her home, and being a talked-about, graciously-air-kissed pariah is as necessary to her spiritual well-being, not to mention her ability to craft and hone her clever, subtle, sugar-coated verbal torpedoes, as being the toast of the town in London or Brussels or wherever. Besides, her time in Toronto is her chance to catch up on her reading and lyposuction.