Bread and circuses
The only problem with excellent weekends is that they are inevitably followed by, well, weekdays. And when that happens, the only thing I can do to stave off the ennui is to relive the weekend in tedious detail.
(And read clown jokes, one of which made my day today. Here!)
Saturday night, at Boho, was an exercise in narcissism. We arrived fairly early for dinner and cocktails, both of which were wonderful (if pricey) and settled in for a good, wide-ranging gossip. As we ate, the place started to fill up, and it just kept filling. A couple of hours in, it was near impossible to move through the crowd to get to the bar or downstairs to the bathrooms.
I was assisted in the latter endeavour by the roaming transvestite accordion player (and oh, how I wish I had more occasions to use that phrase), who liked the much-vaunted bustier enough that he took me by the hand and escorted me down the stairs, scattering people in his wake. The only drawback to that was that the downstairs crowd then assumed I was part of the act, and I had to fend off a few requests for a song on my way to the facilities.
Unfortunately it became almost impossible to get a drink. Plus I still couldn’t talk, and was therefore in grave danger of having to listen to someone else for a change. So we only stayed for three hours before calling it quits and heading home to a cheese platter and sticky wine.
This is where the narcissism comes in: it took me three hours to get ready in the first place.
Now, admittedly, a good hour and a half of that was dying my hair in a desperate attempt to cover up the encroaching grey. And look, much as I don’t like to boast, I’m committed to truth in journalism, so it’s only fair to say that I looked pretty damn hot. But still. Three hours, people. It’s not like it was an Oscars night, and I’m sure all my pretty pretty friends managed to get themselves dressed up in a reasonable timeframe. And they all looked fabulous, and far more appropriately dressed than I. I’m a little ashamed, to tell the truth.
(But only a little. I looked hot.)
In a study of contrasts, I spent Sunday in old jeans, digging in chicken poo. Come November I expect my garden to be a wonderland of woodland plants. You don’t care. Okay then. Enjoy your day.
(And read clown jokes, one of which made my day today. Here!)
Saturday night, at Boho, was an exercise in narcissism. We arrived fairly early for dinner and cocktails, both of which were wonderful (if pricey) and settled in for a good, wide-ranging gossip. As we ate, the place started to fill up, and it just kept filling. A couple of hours in, it was near impossible to move through the crowd to get to the bar or downstairs to the bathrooms.
I was assisted in the latter endeavour by the roaming transvestite accordion player (and oh, how I wish I had more occasions to use that phrase), who liked the much-vaunted bustier enough that he took me by the hand and escorted me down the stairs, scattering people in his wake. The only drawback to that was that the downstairs crowd then assumed I was part of the act, and I had to fend off a few requests for a song on my way to the facilities.
Unfortunately it became almost impossible to get a drink. Plus I still couldn’t talk, and was therefore in grave danger of having to listen to someone else for a change. So we only stayed for three hours before calling it quits and heading home to a cheese platter and sticky wine.
This is where the narcissism comes in: it took me three hours to get ready in the first place.
Now, admittedly, a good hour and a half of that was dying my hair in a desperate attempt to cover up the encroaching grey. And look, much as I don’t like to boast, I’m committed to truth in journalism, so it’s only fair to say that I looked pretty damn hot. But still. Three hours, people. It’s not like it was an Oscars night, and I’m sure all my pretty pretty friends managed to get themselves dressed up in a reasonable timeframe. And they all looked fabulous, and far more appropriately dressed than I. I’m a little ashamed, to tell the truth.
(But only a little. I looked hot.)
In a study of contrasts, I spent Sunday in old jeans, digging in chicken poo. Come November I expect my garden to be a wonderland of woodland plants. You don’t care. Okay then. Enjoy your day.
posted by tanya at 10:14 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home