Versace party last night was fabulous, gallons of champagne, and goody bag did not disappoint.
Going to go to bed early tonight as am shattered by the roller coaster of the last couple of days. Besides, the dogs and I have been invited to a party at the offices of a famous literary agency in Soho tomorrow, so best to be on form as it's an afternoon affair.
The party the dogs and I went to yesterday afternoon was fantastic: pulling-ground heaven.
I spent the entire morning deliberating what to wear; wanted to blend and had absolutely no inkling as to how people dress at a book party. Did not want to stick out like a sore thumb, looking like the obvious Billy-no-mates bimbo in the corner, and had nobody to call up and ask about dress code - apart from Sebastian, Soho's resident dandy. Partial to a bit of diamante, he must have Liberace spinning in his grave with envy. So. Decided for the safe option: black shirt, black skinny jeans, Jimmy Choo boots, topped with leopard skin coat. Needed to relieve all the black as it was a party and not a funeral so added my Chanel bag with gold chains for good measure. Leaving the house, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized my discreet attempt to blend might not be quite as subtle as I thought: more like a 70s pimp in Harlem. What to do? No time to change so just grabbed the dogs - Molly, my Cavalier, and Monte, the Chihuahua - and left for the party with only one option: drink. Well anyway, Molly was the reason for the invitation; Monte and I were just tagging along as supporting cast.
Molly had met Alfie, the literary agent's very handsome dog, one sultry evening last summer, falling head over heels, hopelessly in love with him. A romance had blossomed; hence the invitation for the dogs and myself to his owner's agency party yesterday afternoon. Alfie, I must admit, reciprocated Molly's ardent attentions rather hesitantly; not quite the same fervour as she so openly and blatantly demonstrated towards him continuously throughout the party. I think Molly has been hanging around me too much and so has picked up probably not the best tips on how to make boy dogs fall in love with her... Too much enthusiasm is never a good look.
I have never been to anything remotely book-y; nearest thing was an art gallery opening. Wow, was I so wrong, loads of devastatingly attractive men, did not know where to look; it was just like being in a fabulous sweetie shop. Thought it would be packed full of dull academic people, all looking a bit grey and moth-eaten around the gills, having highbrow conversations. But, hello! Instead surrounded by gorgeous Byrons, looking as though they belonged on a set of Wuthering Heights, all sporting a rather sexually frustrated glint. Think I like this literary world.
The one major tragedy... not a goody bag in sight. This was outrageous, would never ever happen in the fashion world. Quite simply, the PR machine would not allow it. No champagne either! It's one thing having to force myself to drink gallons of warm white wine but one does expect a little recompense at the end. Not even asking for the latest chick lit blockbuster; would have been quite happy with some inane book on fishing, which could have passed on to a friend at a later date when in desperate need of a present.
Oh well. On the bright side, I did leave with a handbag full of business cards, all very promising... and a dashing Irish man on the other arm. The one downer of the entire party was for poor Molly, my spaniel. She did not hit it off so well with Alfie, her potential paramour, this time. Nevertheless, even though Molly's heart ached terribly she valiantly accepted every morsel of food offered to her throughout the party in true girlie style. When in doubt eat, best way to mend a broken heart, and then starve for a week.
Actually, on the subject of food, I got a weird text around a week ago from an American girl I have met only a few times (a top model and London socialite who shall remain nameless). She was over in LA for the Oscars with her equally glamorous boyfriend who shall also remain nameless. It was a very peculiar text: she asked me why it was English girls didn't go to the gym like LA girls. Well, what could I say; firstly, I never visit a gym so how would I know? Secondly, I prefer to keep any form of exercise firmly in the bedroom. Feeling that this wasn't very helpful, I pondered the question for a while when I hit on the answer: we Brits had probably discovered anorexia before the Americans and, when you throw in a dash of bulimia, all need for gym is alleviated. Well strangely have not heard from her since; I suppose Americans are very competitive and prefer to be the first at everything.
Tonight was invited by my girlfriend Lilly to a Jo Malone launch of a new perfume in some really cool underground car park off Broadwick Street. Should be a great goody bag.
I wore my brand new Dolce e Gabbana black pencil skirt (so tight, it's obscene, not even enough space for a pair of knickers), my fabulous vintage angry Mickey Mouse t-shirt making its formal debut, and a pair of very high, Louboutin black patent slingbacks. Slut on the prowl.
The cocktails and nibbles amazing; the garage was transformed into a red and black nightclub which would have done justice to the pages of Wallpaper. Lots of beautiful people draped the walls or lounged on the divinely elegant sofas scattered about. After a few drinks we'd soaked up enough of the super-stylish, über-cool atmosphere and decided we needed nourishment fast as neither of us had eaten all day. Originally the plan had been to eat at the Stockpot, as finances for both were a bit on the strained side. But after all that glamour and us looking so gorgeous, we thought sod it, let's go posh, and rang Patrick at Sartoria for a table.
No goody bag... they had run out. I now know I am cursed.
Arrived at restaurant to be greeted by lovely Patrick, the most wonderful Maitre d' in London, who is very sensitive to girls eating on strict budgets. Such a lovely man! Never any awkwardness when asking for his recommendation for a wine under £25.
Whilst looking at the menu I received a text from holidaying current flame, telling me he looked like a bronzed God and that I'd want to eat him when he got back. Thought that was a bit rich; to turn on a girl who had just decided on sausages and was not likely to see the real thing for another week. Mind you, have been occupying myself in a little bit of self-education; got this book from Coco de Mer called "Sex Tips for Straight Women from a Gay Man": a step-by-step idiot's guide to blow jobs. Well, has helped a great deal with my technique which has not been the greatest to date. The book suggested a tube of ready-made dough but it all seemed a bit too much effort to go to the supermarket so I have been practising on an empty loo roll...
Am going out tonight to Boucheron party, goody bag guaranteed. Have decided to wear Vivien Westwood black skirt with very fitted black Gucci shirt, (so snug it strains on the one button just at the strategic point of the boob to reveal the merest hint of bra lace), and a pair of black patent court shoes to complete pervy secretarial look.
Had drinks at home with Alison to get ourselves in the mood. Big mistake. By the time I got to the party was too in the mood. Was over friendly and flirtatious to anyone who so much as looked at me, especially a lovely man pouring champagne. Had vague memories of being excruciatingly dull to the Director of Boucheron, an obnoxious flirt, complete and utter bore, and was the last to leave, not unusual for me. So not fashion chic. Why can't I be a cool, chic person that wafts in and out of parties with slight disdain and super coolness and not the person always staggering out of the event, grinning ear to ear and wishing every one much love. I am a let down and complete disgrace!
No goody bag. Something terrible is happening in London; it is a conspiracy.