Bad News...

Friday I finally broke free of Office Lady's Aspbergeresque-oppression and threw myself into the alcoholic arms of Friday Night In The City.

Kicking off with the thrill of Alice Euphemia's jewellery launch/opening. There is something about those launches that bring out the latent Mean Girl in Hottness and I. The thrill of the carefully selected Outfits around us. The absurdity of the clothes. The stream of champagne. It all just spells Bitchery to us. The usual faces were there (ooh, poor choice by Lindel with the spotted leggings - and only just now have I realised that she is probably around the same age as me, not the decade plus I'd always previously imagined. Sometimes red lipstick is so aging) with BoyV turning up with an unfortunate bumpart to remind me why you can't go back again (as well as him just being too damn short).

Somehow the endlessly topped-up glasses of champagne inspired me not to stumble sensibly home but instead to stalk down my friend PrettyBoy (is it stalking if they tell you where they are? Surely that's an invite?) and after all it was on the way home, really.



Catching up with PB meant catching up on some interesting news... Apparently the message I'd left on his phone the night before had been missing certain key words. Like "ing" and "your girlfriend". Instead it had just used verbs and, since his girlfriend and I share the same name, I may've substituted "me" instead of her. Wooooh. I'm sure I'll laugh about this modern mixup, all sliding-doors style in later months but for now it appears as though I'll have to reinstitute my No Phones After 9pm policy. Despite an earlier post, technology is baaaad m'kay.



I'm not sure the no-phone policy would've helped with the later part of the evening where I ducked into the Copacabana club to use the toilets and, on stumbling out again was unable to find the exit and became instantly convinced that I was doomed to live in the club FOR EVER. I siezed up the faux-wood panelling with an eye to living with it everyday for the rest of my life, trapped in the windowless hell that was my new home. Luckily I remembered that the exit was to the right of the bar and finally stumbled through it. Phew.

I feel like I've run too fast for no purpose and I wish I knew where I was headed. Not a particularly original thought but by Saturday I felt hollow and ill at ease. It is unnerving to realise that nothing makes much sense and that one could possibly be a stunted psychopath when it comes to relationships. Or that one has a weakness for emotionally stunted retards? Which is worse?