Twas the opening night of an art week, and I stepped out of my friend's cab, the street was packed and she too drunk to go on or even discuss the ins and outs of our evening with T.C. Boyle, and hiccuped up the stairs to her haven of elegance and pop art.
I snuck in with the
most fashionable sardines in town to sip camparis with my favourite
raspberry lipstick bar fly, in the arts bar at the corner. Who could
imagine my disappointment when upon locating the suspect,
she was seeing and being seen interlacing with yet another prince
v.i.p. she had only just met!
As I turned around to order a softdrink, i
was already being invited to a cosy dinner a trois with the cutest
blonde and her dirty old knight, so i soon realised that conversing with
the ice bucket was now my most reasonable option.
Oops! a drunken
Englishman in cream suit and fresh out of St. Tropez was shouting, drinking white wine from a bottle, attempting to make a phone call
through the bar's intercom. Oops! American artists, cigarette in hand,
asking about friends' couches.
And, of course, a few people in crazy wigs, to complete the picture. A
familiar face popped out of the jungle, said hello, disappeared. A lot
of beards, a lot of peroxide, a lot of odd jumpers and men in cardigans.
Hello again ice bucket...