The hours must have dragged for you, cocktail fans. Assorted things have kept me from you. I spent all Monday becoming a muse for a v talented and adorable designer called Osman Yousefzada, a process which mainly involved me trying on all his lovely, lovely frocks, and then making him think up increasingly imaginative ways of telling me how fa-ha-ha-habulous I looked. A serious wardrobe malfunction actually prevented me from leaving the house on Tuesday. It might have been becoming a muse what done it. My old aesthetic clashed with the incoming one, and I had a kind of sartorial crise. There was nothing for it but to lounge about my appartement all day wearing Juicy and diamonds, so that I could re-find some fashion equilibrium.
And then on Wednesday – how unseemly – I was actually required to do some work! The Boss made that dreadful old joke about the fine line between missing deadlines and just being dead, and then got dreadfully stern and all: 'No. REALLY' on my ass. Well, I sighed and pouted Impromptu Benefit (new favourite lip gloss ) and twirled my hair pointedly for a bit, and then bashed out a few thousand words just to keep him quiet. Happily, everything seems back to normal today. I've received two separate floral tributes and one piece of, ahem, 'hate' mail (it read: "Cocktail girl? Silly tart!" which I know might as well be a declaration of undying fancying) and also had a v good lunch with my friend TV M (she works in TV, duh), during which we planned holidays and competitively under-ate. Then I went for a little sleep in the fashion cupboard, from which I woke moments ago to find that it's very nearly l'heure des cocktails again. People, the universe has righted itself.
