After leaving the AllWornOut girls on the Friday evening in London, I went clubbing. On my own. Completely safe – and I did in fact meet a companion. A Chechnyan, who was very kind and very honorable. We chatted about politics, the Ukraine, Chechnya etc. as you do on a Friday evening. I made it home about 3am-ish.
The morning after the night before I was feeling a little rough around the edges. I knew I had to liven myself up before heading to meet the other blogging ladies at lunchtime. At first I thought about cider and ice cubes at Langan’s, but they were closed. As I wandered up towards Bond Street I suddenly realized that I could try and head back to Aubaine in Selfridges for a mimosa or likewise.
As I entered the handbag department I noticed several people sitting on a balcony eating – a good sign at 10am. As I rounded the corner I discovered HIX. A fabulous little champagne bar that happened to do a champagne breakfast – result! It felt incredibly decadent sitting on my own eating scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and toast, and sipping a bellini (or 3). Not the cheapest breakfast ever, but how often do I get to do it? I even saw Charles Saatchi and Trinny Woodall wandering the store below me – I wasn’t quick enough with my camera unfortunately!
Staying in Mayfair was a new experience for me. Not one of my usual haunts at all. While I was there I knew I had to have some fun. After leaving the girls on Saturday night, and being told to head straight back to the hotel, I wandered past the private members club Annabel’s.
“Sorry Miss, private members only” said the doorman, as I explained I was on my own and just wanted somewhere for a night cap.
“Just say my name downstairs” a girl called out as she was stepping into her taxi.
A bit of liquid courage and before I knew it I was waltzing into Annabel’s like I was a regular. As I told the front of house the girl’s name he didn’t bat an eyelid and just motioned me in.
“F*ck, f*ck I’m in” I said to myself suddenly panicking as to what to do next. I wandered nonchalantly to a table by the dance floor. What a sight to behold. Not just women in designer gear, but proper, haute couture designer gear. The dance floor was full of 100lb girls, with spray tans and waist length hair, dresses barely covering their butts. The guys were all in suits dancing awkwardly in some bizarre mating ritual. Large men were sitting at dining tables with magnums of champagne, eating steak and laughing loudly. I felt like I was in some kind of Martin Amis novel. How I was getting away with it I have no idea – I ordered a vodka and tonic. If I got found out what more can they do but throw me out?
I left without paying for my drink – I assume the lovely kind girl who gave me her name paid for it on her account. Sorry – I owe you one, but no one gave me a check and by that time I knew I had to get out before I saw another girl shuffling in her 10 inch Laboutins.
A great story to have, and great confirmation that I am no West End Girl.