So, the grim weather situation has played havoc with my look, not to mention my hair. I am considering resorting to hats, in the style of fash icon Isabella Blow - who coincidentally stood me up in the tea room of Claridges for an entire hour on Monday morning. Mainly, I love posh eccentric types for their devil-may-care attitude towards tiresome conventions like Greenwich Mean Time. But every so often it screws with my schedule and makes me late for a freebie bikini wax, and then I get annoyed and have to be forcibly removed from the lobbies of smart London hotels because, apparently, I'm 'creating a scene'. (Can society girls be given ASBOs? Or do we have some kind of immunity?)
ANYHOO, as you can tell, a Cocktail Girl's life is trickier than one might first imagine. For example: I was recently forced to swing by the Herbal Hill canteen (which I generally avoid, on account of its tiresome no-booze policy) because the magazine insisted I attended some funny little gathering they like to call a 'features meeting'. But while languishing in the queue for Green & Blacks organic choc and thus neatly avoiding coming up with any actual 'features ideas', I spotted a pile of rather clever paper devices stacked by the till - a kind of doily that expands into a basket custom-designed to cradle a person's hot beverage! I haven't seen anything that raw-yet-chic since I squatted in Roland Mouret's atelier for a weekend without him realising. I feel an entire handbag range coming on.
PS Cocktail fans, thank you for the poem (very nice, can you also do Haiku?) the fashion advice (yes, I had considered tweed, but rejected it on the grounds that it's too itchy for summer), and obviously the insults. No, I will not shut up, and also I know you fancy me, pseudo-haters.
