Polite conversation

Going rouge

After going rogue in Mayfair the other night, I have now gone ‘rouge’.

Forty minutes of physiotherapy massage at the London Clinic has left me looking like Aunt Sally. It has been three hours since I left,  and the bright red marks on my (razor sharp) cheek bones are still there.

I asked my physio how many of her patients have the long, perfectly rectangular face that the table is clearly designed for. She declined to comment.

I can only assume that whoever made it had the long horsey faces of aristocrats in mind. The place is on Harley Street after all, so it wouldn’t surprise me.

Come to think of it….I’m sure I’m sure I saw sugar cubes and hay next to the complimentary biscuits in the waiting room.

The Getaway / Art Crowd

My nocturnal adventurings often take me to strange and unusual places.
Last night my band of handsome thrill seekers ended up at an art dealer’s party in Mayfair.

We were lured there from another party with a badly cut invitation, printed on cheap inkjet photo paper.

When we arrived, the man who had invited us looked like he was sucking on the sourest lemon in the whole of the land.

“Plus three? Well…..I suppose… know it was just…….oh come in”

The house was magnificent, the booze was abundant, the h’ordeuvres were….well they were a bit dry really.

The party was packed with type of artist who you could talk to without mocking them in your mind.

Unfortunately, every time we opened our mouths to say something we were asked to pose for a photo. My friend Kevin pointed out that it would have been a massacre had we been aboriginal.

As the champagne flowed freely, Mr lemon mouth buzzed around us like a bitchy mosquito.

Were we enjoying the free champagne? Wasn’t it a shame that it was going down so quickly since there were three of us and only one of us was really invited.

I can’t remember exactly what he said to make me snap, but the events that followed were spectacular. In an eloquent stream of obscenities I told our foul inviter that his company was unbearable and that none of us could take another second of his passive aggressive shit headery.

As we proudly strode out of the 20 million pound property, lemon mouth neurotically ran after us, begging us to wait.

“Fuuuuuck youuuuuuu” we chorused, without even looking back.