Note to self: Don’t eat the cutlery
There is going to be a good party this weekend. There is a woman I know, I’ve known her for almost a decade now. And if I’m being honest I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for her. She is Persian (Note the difference to Iranian) but 100% London, if you cut her she would bleed the Northern Line, and then punch you in the face.
She is a party organiser for the best, and wildest parties I’ve ever been to and also a very focused business woman. Sadly she thinks I’m a moron, a loveable moron but a moron none the less.
The sort of person who can’t be trusted not to eat small items of furniture just to see if they are cheese or not. I’m not sure where this has come from but it is there.
We used to work together years and years ago and that evolved into a friendship, albeit a strange one. So we stayed in touch. We go to each others birthdays and occasionally meet for lunch. She is a little bit fighty, incredibly intelligent and I still like being around her even if she does give me plastic forks and cups with lids.
Also she has the best friends. All her parties are like they have been filled by a sleazy casting agent who only wants to have people in the scene that he fancies. It’s a bit ridiculous. More than just being hot they are all lovely, uttery fascinating people.
At the last one I met a great actress (Vaguely famous in the UK) who became my posh-party partner (The person who I invited along when I had a plus one to an art bash), a load of great people and a rather smashing woman who I didn’t realise was trying to get me to stay the night until I was half way home. Oops.
The party is tomorrow night, and if ever there was a place to meet lots of girls with high marriage potential then this would be it. I just hope I don’t accidentally eat a fork.