Laughter Is Infectious Quotes

Laughter--an interior convulsion, producing a distortion of the features, and accompanied by inarticulate noises. It is infectious, and though intermittent, incurable.

Some sleepers have intelligent faces even in sleep, while other faces, even intelligent ones, become very stupid in sleep and therefore ridiculous. I don't know what makes that happen; I only want to say that a laughing man, like a sleeping one, most often knows nothing about his face. A great many people don't know how to laugh at all. However, there's nothing to know here: it's a gift, and it can't be fabricated. It can only be fabricated by re-educating oneself, developing oneself for the better, and overcoming the bad instincts of one's character; then the laughter of such a person might quite possibly change for the better. A man can give himself away completely by his laughter, so that you suddenly learn all of his innermost secrets. Even indisputably intelligent laughter is sometimes repulsive. Laughter calls first of all for sincerity, and where does one find sincerity? Laughter calls for lack of spite, but people most often laugh spitefully. Sincere and unspiteful laughter is mirth. A man's mirth is a feature that gives away the whole man, from head to foot. Someone's character won't be cracked for a long time, then the man bursts out laughing somehow quite sincerely, and his whole character suddenly opens up as if on the flat of your hand. Only a man of the loftiest and happiest development knows how to be mirthful infectiously, that is, irresistibly and goodheartedly. I'm not speaking of his mental development, but of his character, of the whole man. And so, if you want to discern a man and know his soul, you must look, not at how he keeps silent, or how he speaks, or how he weeps, or even how he is stirred by the noblest ideas, but you had better look at him when he laughs. If a man has a good laugh, it means he's a good man. Note at the same time all the nuances: for instance, a man's laughter must in no case seem stupid to you, however merry and simplehearted it may be. The moment you notice the slightest trace of stupidity in someone's laughter, it undoubtedly means that the man is of limited intelligence, though he may do nothing but pour out ideas. Or if his laughter isn't stupid, but the man himself, when he laughs, for some reason suddenly seems ridiculous to you, even just slightly—know, then, that the man has no real sense of dignity, not fully in any case. Or finally, if his laughter is infectious, but for some reason still seems banal to you, know, then, that the man's nature is on the banal side as well, and all the noble and lofty that you noticed in him before is either deliberately affected or unconsciously borrowed, and later on the man is certain to change for the worse, to take up what's 'useful' and throw his noble ideas away without regret, as the errors and infatuations of youth.

Like I said, magic comes from life, and especially from emotions. They're a source of the same intangible energy that everyone can feel when an autumn moon rises and fills you with a sudden sense of bone-deep excitement, or when the first warm breeze of spring rushes past your face, full of the scents of life, and drowns you in a sudden flood of unreasoning joy. The passion of mighty music that brings tears to your eyes, and the raw, bubbling, infectious laughter of small children at play, the bellowing power of a stadium full of football fans shouting "Hey!" in time to that damned song—they're all charged with magic. My magic comes from the same places. And maybe from darker places than that. Fear is an emotion, too. So is rage. So is lust. And madness. I'm not a particularly good person. I'm no Charles Manson or anything, but I'm not going to be up for canonization either. Though in the past, I think maybe I was a better person than I am today. In the past I hadn't seen so many people hurt and killed and terrorized by the same kind of power that damn well should have been making the world a nicer place, or at the least staying the hell away from it. I hadn't made so many mistakes back then, so many shortsighted decisions, some of which had cost people their lives. I had been sure of myself. I had been whole.

I said that one of the most infectious things I know is laughter. But sorrow can also be contagious. Fear is different. It isn't as communicable as laughter or sadness, and a good thing too. Fear is almost entirely a lonely thing.

I’m sorry, ma’am. Your daughter died of laughter. It’s an infectious disease. I did everything I could.

Most of all, I remember her laughing. It filled my ears. Her smile, her sparkling eyes, and her infectious laughter, along with the vistas, were limitless and unending and powerful.

Indeed, laughter may be the shortest distance between two brains, an unstoppable infectious spread that builds an instant social bond.

My mother’s laughter was infectious - like a cheerful tune that lingers in your mind for the rest of the day.

By the time we burst into the patisserie, our cheeks and noses were red. Our throats ached from laughter. I stared at her as she swept the cloak from my shoulders. She smiled with her whole face. I'd never seen such a transformation. It was... infectious.

Sincere and unspiteful laughter is mirth, but where is there any mirth in our time, and do people know how to be mirthful?... A man's mirth is a feature that gives away the whole man, from head to foot. Someone's character won't be cracked for a long time then the man bursts out laughing somehow quite sincerely, and his whole character suddenly opens up as if on the flat of your hand. Only a man of the loftiest and happiest development knows how to be mirthful infectiously, that is, irresistibly and goodheartedly. I'm not speaking of his mental development, but of his character, of the whole man. And so, if you want to discern a man and know his soul, you must look, not at how he keeps silent, or how he speaks, or how we weeps, or even how he is stirred by the noblest ideas, but you had better look at him when he laughs. If a man has a good laugh, it means he's a good man.

a radiant and infectious, almost childlike gaiety which was always bubbling over into delighted and delightful laughter.

contagious, infectious. Diseases spread by contact are contagious. Those spread by air and water are infectious. Used figuratively (‘contagious laughter’, ‘infectious enthusiasm’), either is all right.

He was part of the night, the creatures known to him, the restless, untamed land matching his hungry soul. Beau watched him,observing the utter stillness marking the dangerous predator, the merciless eyes moving constantly,missing nothing.The powerful, well-muscled body was deceptively relaxed but ready for anything. The face,harshy sensual, beautifully cruel, was etched with hardship and knowledge,rish and peril. Gregori stayed in the shadows,but the silver menace of his gaze glowed with a strange iridescent light in the dark of the night. Beau took the opportunity to study Savannah. She was everything up close that she had been on the stage, even more. Ethereal, mysterious, sexy. They very stuff of men's fantasies. Her face was flawless, lit up with joy, her eyes clear,like beautiful blue star sapphires. Her laughter was musical and infectious. She was small and innocent beside the predator in his boat. She would touch Gregori's arm, point to something on the embankment, her body brushing his lightly,and each time it happened,those pale eyes would warm to molten mercury and caress fer face intimately,hungrily.

ELLIE SAITO: I was in L.A. on my way to Palm Springs to meet with some prefab developers. I stopped by the Twenty Mile House. Bernadette was all laughter, in overalls and a tool belt, speaking broken Spanish to a bunch of workers. It was infectious. I rolled up my Issey Miyake and helped dig a trench.

I arched a brow. “Something funny?” Her mouth formed a tight line. “Nope.” I approached her. “You sure?” Her gaze flicked to mine, then away. “Uh-huh.” “Okay, then.” I turned and headed over to grab the last of our things. “It’s just . . .” Eilish began and then trailed off. “Yes?” She shook her head and finally let her giggles flow free. I couldn’t help smiling, too, even though I wasn’t entirely sure an inconvenient hard-on warranted so much laughter. It was infectious all the same. She gestured to the retreating group of tourists. “I studied German at school, so I can pick out certain words. One of the women commented about you to her friend.” I smirked. “Oh yeah? What did she say?” She dabbed the wetness from the corners of her eyes. “Something along the lines of a bratwurst big enough to feed an army.” My smirk died. “I wish I hadn’t asked.” “Really? I thought men enjoyed compliments about that . . . particular area.” “They do. But armies are generally made up of a bunch of blokes.” I arched a brow meaningfully. A loud burst of laughter escaped her, and she clamped her hand over mouth. God, she was too fucking adorable. She sucked in a breath, finally calming down from her fit of giggles. “You’re too much, Bryan Leech.” “That’s what the German ladies think anyway,” I deadpanned, my smirk returning. Eilish burst into laughter all over again.

Damme, I've been waiting for you to come home these three hours, with nothing to do but read some dashed book or other!' Hero found the thought of his spending an evening at home with a book so droll that she broke into a peal of laughter, which was so infectious that his lordship was obliged to join in. They went upstairs together in excellent accord, and when they parted outside Hero's door, Sherry did her the honor of informing her that she was a good little puss, and that he had always had a fondness for her.

The meal was full of jovial conversation and laughter. Everyone was as happy as if Peter was right there amongst them, for you see, it was true what the King and the doctor had observed- Peter had a way of infecting people with happiness that lingered even in his absence. The effect was stronger for some people than it was for others, but all of the company gathered here had come to love and trust Peter, and therefore his influence on them was very strong- strong enough, perhaps, to last them to the end of their days.

I’m not hard to figure out, Zoe,” he murmured. “No games. I’m not the flirting type. If I don’t mean it, I don’t say it. And I never feel obligated to say shit I don’t really mean just to make someone else feel better. I think it’s best if we get that out of the way right now. You with me?” She swallowed, her throat working up and down as she slowly nodded. Her gaze was full of wonder as she continued to stare back up at him, as if processing his solemn statement and measuring its sincerity. “Yeah,” she finally whispered. “I think so.” “Then you might want to catch that fish that’s messing with your line,” he said in amusement. She whirled around just in time to see her bobber plunge under for the fourth time, and she hauled upward on the pole with both hands, letting out a peal of infectious laughter. “I’m so fucked,” Joe whispered to himself. “And the hell of it is, I’m loving every fucking minute of it.

Instead, I gave them the only salute I could think of. Two middle fingers. Held high for emphasis. The six fiery orbs winked out at once. Hopefully, they’d died from affront. Ben eyed me sideways as he maneuvered from shore. “What in the world are you doing?” “Those red-eyed jerks were on the cliff,” I spat, then immediately felt silly. “All I could think of.” Ben made an odd huffing sound I couldn’t interpret. For a shocked second, I thought he was furious with me. “Nice work, Victoria.” Ben couldn’t hold the laughter inside. “That oughta do it!” I flinched, surprised by his reaction. Ben, cracking up at a time like this? He had such a full, honest laugh—I wished I heard it more. Infectious, too. I couldn’t help joining in, though mine came out in a low Beavis and Butthead cackle. Which made Ben howl even more. In an instant, we were both in stitches at the absurdity of my one-finger salutes. At the insanity of the evening. At everything. Tears wet my eyes as Sewee bobbed over the surf, circling the southeast corner of the island. It was a release I desperately needed. Ben ran a hand through his hair, then sighed deeply. “I love it,” he snickered, steering Sewee through the breakers, keeping our speed to a crawl so the engine made less noise. “I love you, sometimes.” Abruptly, his good humor cut off like a guillotine. Ben’s body went rigid. I felt a wave of panic roll from him, as if he’d accidently triggered a nuclear bomb. I experienced a parallel stab of distress. My stomach lurched into my throat, and not because of the rolling ocean swells. Did he just . . . what did he mean when . . . Oh crap. Ben’s eyes darted to me, then shot back to open water. Even in the semidarkness, I saw a flush of red steal up his neck and into his cheeks. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Shifted again. Debated going over the side. Did he really mean to say he . . . loved me? Like, for real? The awkward moment stretched longer than any event in human history. He said “sometimes,” which is a definite qualifier. I love Chinese food “sometimes.” Mouth opened as I searched for words that might defuse the tension. Came up with nothing. I felt trapped in a nightmare. Balanced on a beam a hundred feet off the ground. Sinking underwater in a sealed car with no idea how to get out. Ben’s lips parted, then worked soundlessly, as if he, too, sought to break the horrible awkwardness. A verbal retreat, or some way to reverse time. Is that what I want? For Ben to walk it back? A part of me was astounded by the chaos a single four-word utterance could create. Ben gulped a breath, seemed to reach a decision. As his mouth opened a second time, all the adrenaline in creation poured into my system. “I . . . I was just saying that . . .” He trailed off, then smacked the steering wheel with his palm. Ben squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head sharply as if disgusted by the effort. Ben turned. Blasted me with his full attention. “I mean it. I’m not going to act—

Cat was no novice, but the term “sexual satisfaction” didn’t even come close to what Wilson McKay had done to her. It was magnificent. It was mind-bending. It was addictive. Wilson was almost blind with exhaustion, but he’d never felt better in his life. Just at the point of falling asleep, he felt Cat’s backside snuggling closer into his lap. “Uh…Wilson?” “Hmmm?” “Could we do that again?” He laughed out loud. It started like a rumble down deep in his belly and came up his throat in husky ripples, until the sound, like a blowout, burst behind Cat’s head. His laughter was infectious. A little embarrassed, she frowned, but when he buried his face against the back of her neck and kept laughing, she rolled out from beneath his grasp and punched him on the shoulder. Wilson had never, in his entire life as an adult, experienced this much passion and fun at the same time. He laughed until his belly hurt, and when he tried to pull her back down to him, she wouldn’t relent. “It wasn’t that funny,” Cat muttered. “On the contrary,” Wilson said. “You just weren’t looking at the request from my point of view. I was just lying there thinking that I’d never felt so used up and satisfied in my life, and then you’re asking about a repeat performance.

He chuckled blackly, never taking his dark eyes off her. Finally he stopped . . .and began to lift her up, up, like a sacrifice to the gods. “Gray, no!” He laughed. “Gray, no!” She shrieked, but he had already tossed her high, laughing in pure delight as she flailed and swore and hit the sea with a resounding splash. Coughing and choking, she thrust downward, trying to find her footing, but the movement only plunged her head under again. Cursing, she broke the surface, found a foothold on a shelf of coral, and slashing her cupped palm over the waves, sprayed him with water. “Snake!” she cried, as his rich laughter rolled through the night. She sprayed him again. “I’ll get you for this, you treacherous rat!” He folded his arms across his chest. Dark eyes challenged her. “Be my guest, madam.” But his grin was infectious, and even mock anger could not be sustained.

As for your one true love, you have already found them. The person who loves you above all others. The person who cares for you more than anything else. The person who will do anything to make you happy. Your one true love is yourself, selfish child.” The tent again broke out in infectious laughter as Talia’s mouth dropped open.

Acquiring a blissful brain and in peace, is when I think positively, the sounds around and within me become music, my movement as one of a conscious dance, my smile breaking in to an infectious laughter, my mind transcending in meditation, and my life grows and becomes a celebration!

Gaby rolled her eyes to the way his words, laced with the origin of wherever the hell he was from, made everything sound so much more patronizing. This, she was not doing. She was not going to debate with him while Jamie and Sheryl pretended not to eavesdrop as they organized the countertop displays. His slick talk reminded her why she requested to avoid future interactions with him. He was an arrogant prick; although something about him told her that his arrogance came from what he thought of himself, versus 99% of the population’s, which was fueled by others’ opinions. “Look… can I help you with something?” Gaby asked with a smile dripping with sarcasm. “I mean… are you having some type of issue? Perhaps a burning…or an itching sensation? Are you looking for some type of medical assistance? Because I can tell you right now, we’re not a clinic, so...” Power began to laugh. He tilted his head back, face to ceiling and laughed, and Gaby realized it was the first time she’d seen him do so. To see his face softened beyond its usual rigid state was truly captivating. It was almost infectious. She let out a little snigger and looked off trying to keep from engaging completely. When she looked back to him, the laughter slowed but remained in his eyes. He licked his lips, and then pointed. “You’re funny. Very. You should’ve been a comedian.” “Yeah, well… I guess I missed my calling. Seriously…can I help you?” This time she was truly inquiring, no attitude, no jokes.

My mother’s laughter was infectious - like a cheerful tune that lingers in your mind for the rest of the day.

While we were finishing our coffee, one of these men stood up and called out the name of a song. Everyone joined in, loud, lusty and wonderful, as I'd heard it before among Pentecostals. By the middle of the second song a woman at the next table was weeping. There was nothing especially emotional about the song itself; it was one of the standard old Gospel hymns, "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross." But crying seems to be as infectious as laughter. Soon some of the men on the platform were unabashedly bringing out their handkerchiefs. What was it that swept a room this way? I felt it too; so did Tib sitting next to me. Both of us were studiously avoiding looking the other one in the eye. As the music continued, several people at the tables began to sing "in the Spirit." Soon the whole room was singing a complicated harmony-without-score, created spontaneously. It was eerie but extraordinarily beautiful. The song leader was no longer trying to direct the music but let the melodies create themselves: Without prompting, one quarter of the room would suddenly start to sing very loudly while other subsided. Harmonies and counter-harmonies wove in and out of each other.

We hear so much about the sanitary qualities of laughter, we have been taught so seriously the gospel of amusement, that any writer, preacher, or lecturer, whose smile is broad enough to be infectious, finds himself a prophet in the market-place. Laughter, we are told, freshens our exhausted spirits and disposes us to good-will–which is true. It is also true that laughter quiets our uneasy scruples and disposes us to simple savagery. Whatever we laugh at, we condone, and the echo of man’s malicious merriment rings pitilessly through the centuries. Humour which has no scorn, wit which has no sting, jests which have no victim, these are not the pleasantries which have provoked mirth, or fed the comic sense of a conventionalized rather than a civilized world.

She was so focused on the movie that she didn’t even notice the front door swing open and wasn’t aware of Dante’s presence until he spoke. “What are you watching?” he asked from almost directly behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Crap,” she squeaked, lifting a hand to her chest. “You scared the stuffing out of me.” “Stuffing?” He raised an eyebrow at her language, and she wrinkled her nose. “I read somewhere that the baby can hear my voice. I don’t want him to pick up any bad language before he’s even born.” “He can hear us?” Dante looked completely disconcerted by that bit of news, and after shrugging out of his jacket and neatly placing it on the chair, he sat down on the couch next to her. “Seriously?” “Yep. Shocked the shi—sherbet out of me too.” He grinned, the expression so infectious she found herself grinning back. “How long do you think you’ll be able to keep that up?” he asked, his voice wobbling with laughter. “I don’t know, but I’m going to try my damnedest not to . . .” She paused, frowned, and then her shoulders sank as she grasped what she’d said. “Shit.” “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he chuckled, toeing off his shiny shoes and propping his feet up on the table next to hers.

Beautiful Ayesha! There were not enough words to describe the kind of enchanting vision she was. The continual strawberry redolence she emitted and the dimples on her ceaselessly flushed, light cheeks had the power to brighten every face in any room she would walk into. She was the person you would look for on a dreadful day because her infectious laughter could completely turn your day around, especially Zorawar’s. There was something exceptionally magical about her soulful, amber eyes. It was as though they could swallow every shining star and every galaxy in the sky.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. Just sitting in her private room was fascinating. Her magazines lay on the table, from Vogue to Hello, as well as her newspapers--the Daily Mail at the top of the pile, obviously, if distressingly. After I had spent ten minutes on my own, she swept in, gushing: “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Piers. I hope Paul has been looking after you all right.” And then came what was surely one of the most needless requests of all time: “Would you mind awfully if William joins us for lunch? He’s on an exeat from Eton, and I just thought that given you are a bit younger than most editors, it might be good for both of you to get to know each other.” “I’m sorry, but that would be terribly inconvenient,” I replied sternly. Diana blushed slightly and started a stuttering “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry…” apology, when I burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am, I think I can stretch to allowing the future king to join us for lunch.” The absurdity of this conversation held no apparent bounds. But before he joined us, Diana wanted a little chat. “How’s your circulation?” she asked. Bloody rampant, I thought, as she nestled into her sofa, radiating a surprisingly high degree of sexual allure. “Oh very healthy, ma’am, thanks to you.” She laughed, a tad insincerely. We discussed her mate Fergie. “Can’t you go a bit easier on her?” Diana pleaded, with genuine concern in those extraordinarily big, expressively deep, blue eyes. “Well, she’s her own worst enemy,” I replied. “Look at this morning’s front pages--I mean, who the hell takes the Concorde the day after the papers reveal she’s £3 million in debt?” “I know, I know,” sighed the Princess, “but she means well; she has a big heart. It’s not easy for her.” We debated the merits of Fergie, or even Diana herself, emigrating away from the media firestorm. “Yes, but to where? I’ve thought about it often, but somebody would find me wherever I went.” And then I saw a flash of real sadness in her face, a desperation almost to have her anonymity back, but knowing it is gone forever. I asked what it was like “being Diana.” “Oh God, let’s face it, even I have had enough of Diana now--and I am Diana.” She screeched with laughter, and I saw her chameleon side. Able to switch so easily from misery to hilarity. “It’s been ridiculous recently, just one thing after another. But I can’t stop the press writing about me, can I? You are hardly going to say ‘Oh, okay then, we’ll leave you alone.’ I would like to have a good break. I meet a lot of ordinary people, and they are always so kind to me. They shout out things like ‘Eh, Di, I know what you’re going through, luv,’ and I laughed and think: ‘If only you really knew. He’s worrying about his allotment or whatever, and I’ve got things like the future of the monarchy on my mind.’” More screeches--she has a great laugh. A really earthy infectious cackle. Like a Sloaney Barbara Windsor.

My Lovely Grandson Your lovely smile that warms my heart Your infectious laughter that brings me joy I fell in love in with your charming character Grandma's little boy May God protect you in every aspect of your life May He give you wisdom in everything you do May He bless you and keep you All the days of your life.

Nana Mama always said my aunt Connie had never met a stranger. My grandmother was right. All my memories of her were filled with smiles and infectious laughter.

It was easy to get sucked into the rhythm of the city, the tumult of being one in a million. Most people were exactly like Jack. Headphones in, head cast downwards, disappearing in the crowd. But if that was all you looked for then that was all you could see. That day Jack paused to take a closer look. An old man reading his newspaper on a bench. Children playing in the park, their infectious laughter even louder than traffic. A dog wagging its tail as his owner picked him up for a hug. Two friends skipping through the streets, arm in arm. London was buzzing with life, hope, and fresh beginnings.

I find women friends easier. Openness is obvious (I like to think), undemandingness is total (I hope), loyalty invulnerable (I imagine). Intuition moves without prejudice, emotion is undisguised, there is no prestige involved. Conflicts which arise are trusting and not infectious. Together we have danced every imaginable turn: suffering, tenderness, passion, foolishness, betrayal, anger, comedy, tedium, love, lies, joy, jealousies, adultery, overstepping boundaries, good faith. And here are even more: tears, eroticism, mere eroticism, disasters, triumphs, troubles, abuse, fights, anxiety, pining, eggs, sperm, bleeding, departure, panties. Here are even more - best to finish before the rails run out - impotence, lechery, terror, the proximity of death, death itself, black nights, sleepless nights, white nights, music, breakfasts, breasts, lips, pictures. Turn towards the camera and behold another jumble of images: skin, dog, rituals, roast duck, whale steak, bad oysters, cheating and fiddling, rapes, fine clothes, jewellery, touches, kisses, shoulders, hips, strange lights, streets, towns, rivals, seducers, hairs in the comb, long letters, explanations, all that laughter, ageing, aches, spectacles, hands, hands, hands.

Almost” Eleu said, his fingers moving incredibly fast and pieces of chicken flying everywhere. “Aaaaaand, aaaaand, aaaaand… Pau!” He proudly held up a perfectly carved plate full of raw chicken. “Eh, Molawa, how do you like your chicken?” he asked, winking at Kaimana and Kilikina. “Wit’ no feathers, bruh!” Molawa said loudly. The two of them burst into infectious laughter that Kaimana and Kilikina couldn’t help but join them in.

I felt something flip, like an air pressure change in my brain. I must’ve made a funny expression because Sebastian and Chris were laughing at me. The laughter was infectious, and eventually I was laughing so hard I fell off my chair. The room spun all around me. I was under the table, laughing and laughing. But even as I felt relaxed and happy there was a part of me that felt too relaxed, too at ease. My unmodulated display of enjoyment suddenly made me anxious. I felt scared they’d seen something in me I hadn’t wanted them to see.

I said that one of the most infectious things i know is laughter. But sorrow can also be contagious. Fear is different. It isn't communicable as laughter or sadness, and good thing too. Fear is almost entirely a lonely thing.

he talked. “And to top it off,” he said, “they cut down every single one of the trees and replaced them with a stockade fence.” The group burst out laughing again. Leo joined in. The laughter was infectious, even though she had no idea what the joke was. “Maria!” a woman’s

Infectious smile has infected tears The laughter strikes with spears I am not dear and they are not sincere Feeling fear I must perform For when I stop the stage is gone

Darren McGrady Darren McGrady was personal chef to Princess Diana until her tragic accident. He is now a private chef in Dallas, Texas, and a board member of the Pink Ribbons Crusade: A Date with Diana. His cookbook, titled Eating Royally: Recipes and Remembrances from a Palace Kitchen, will be released in August 2007 by Rutledge Hill Press. His website is located at theroyalchef. I knew Princess Diana for fifteen years, but it was those last four years after I became a part of her everyday life that I really got to know her. For me, one of the benefits of being a Buckingham Palace chef was the chance to speak to “Lady Di.” I had seen her in the newspapers; who hadn’t? She was beautiful. The whole world was in love with her and fascinated by this “breath of fresh air” member of the Royal Family. The first time I met her, I just stood and stared. As she chatted away with the pastry chef in the Balmoral kitchen, I thought she was even more beautiful in real life than her pictures in the daily news. Over the years, I’ve read account after account of how the Princess could light up a room, how people would become mesmerized by her natural beauty, her charm, and her poise. I couldn’t agree more. In time, I became a friendly face to the Princess and was someone she would seek out when she headed to the kitchens. At the beginning, she would pop in “just for a glass of orange juice.” Slowly, her visits became more frequent and lasted longer. We would talk about the theater, hunting, or television; she loved Phantom of the Opera and played the CD in her car. After she and Prince Charles separated, I became her private chef at Kensington Palace, and our relationship deepened as her trust in me grew. It was one of the Princess’s key traits; if she trusted you, then you were privy to everything on her mind. If she had been watching Brookside--a UK television soap opera--then we chatted about that. If the Duchess of York had just called her with some gossip about “the family,” she wanted to share that, too. “You’ll never believe what Fergie has just told me,” she would announce, bursting into the kitchen with excitement. She loved to tell jokes, even crude ones, and would laugh at the shock on my face--not so much because of the joke, but because it was the Princess telling it. Her laughter was infectious.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. Just sitting in her private room was fascinating. Her magazines lay on the table, from Vogue to Hello, as well as her newspapers--the Daily Mail at the top of the pile, obviously, if distressingly. After I had spent ten minutes on my own, she swept in, gushing: “I’m so sorry to have kept you, Piers. I hope Paul has been looking after you all right.” And then came what was surely one of the most needless requests of all time: “Would you mind awfully if William joins us for lunch? He’s on an exeat from Eton, and I just thought that given you are a bit younger than most editors, it might be good for both of you to get to know each other.” “I’m sorry, but that would be terribly inconvenient,” I replied sternly. Diana blushed slightly and started a stuttering “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry…” apology, when I burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am, I think I can stretch to allowing the future king to join us for lunch.” The absurdity of this conversation held no apparent bounds. But before he joined us, Diana wanted a little chat. “How’s your circulation?” she asked. Bloody rampant, I thought, as she nestled into her sofa, radiating a surprisingly high degree of sexual allure. “Oh very healthy, ma’am, thanks to you.” She laughed, a tad insincerely. We discussed her mate Fergie. “Can’t you go a bit easier on her?” Diana pleaded, with genuine concern in those extraordinarily big, expressively deep, blue eyes. “Well, she’s her own worst enemy,” I replied. “Look at this morning’s front pages--I mean, who the hell takes the Concorde the day after the papers reveal she’s 3 million in debt?” “I know, I know,” sighed the Princess, “but she means well; she has a big heart. It’s not easy for her.” We debated the merits of Fergie, or even Diana herself, emigrating away from the media firestorm. “Yes, but to where? I’ve thought about it often, but somebody would find me wherever I went.” And then I saw a flash of real sadness in her face, a desperation almost to have her anonymity back, but knowing it is gone forever. I asked what it was like “being Diana.” “Oh God, let’s face it, even I have had enough of Diana now--and I am Diana.” She screeched with laughter, and I saw her chameleon side. Able to switch so easily from misery to hilarity. “It’s been ridiculous recently, just one thing after another. But I can’t stop the press writing about me, can I? You are hardly going to say ‘Oh, okay then, we’ll leave you alone.’ I would like to have a good break. I meet a lot of ordinary people, and they are always so kind to me. They shout out things like ‘Eh, Di, I know what you’re going through, luv,’ and I laughed and think: ‘If only you really knew. He’s worrying about his allotment or whatever, and I’ve got things like the future of the monarchy on my mind.’” More screeches--she has a great laugh. A really earthy infectious cackle. Like a Sloaney Barbara Windsor.

But for now, you are only mine," she said a bit more fiercely than she had intended. "And I am not ready to share you with them all just yet." His low laugh, which had been coming more easily lately, rolled freely from his throat as he brought her back into his arms. "Yet, you force meto share you," he stated. "You realize that once we are married, I will be able to take you away on a grand honeymoon. It will be just the two of us. Not only for the darkest hours of the night," he murmured suggestively as his hands began to roam up and down the length of her back, inciting delicious shivers. He lowered his head beside hers to tease the sensitive skin of her neck with his lips and breath. "But all day, as well. Through sunrise, midday, and dusk. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner." Lily sighed, melting into him. Her hands reached around to grasp his buttocks, and she pressed her lips to his bare shoulder before asking, "Can we take all of our meals to bed?" His laughter was deep, rolling, and infectious as he stepped away. "I had better get you home, or I shall make another meal of you.

.. When she erupted into rippling peals of laughter, he was offended. True, it had not been much of a proposal, but it was the first of his life and meant a great deal to him. Then her infectious laugh grabbed him and pulled him in to laugh along with her.