Despite calls from friends to do the right thing and go to synagogue last night, I obviously knew better and ended up drinking cocktails through 3 straws before getting stuck into hideously inexpensive champoo. I can't call it champagne, sorry. What happened next is a slight blurr involving a lawyer of sorts (I stand to be corrected), drinking Bordeaux straight from a decanter in bed and that crushing and always too late realisation that the fully dressed Armani clad lawyer was much much more desirable than the drunk naked version. But I digress. So during the imbibing from the decanter he started speaking french. Which basically means he repeated menu items and "Je suis" a few hundred times. Leaving me with the choice of climbing his silk curtains like a cat or faking that Saviour of Marriage, the migraine. I opted for the latter, got dressed and during the goodbye kiss I heard a hard swallow, saw his cheeks bulge and in the longest nanosecond in history, I managed to dodge -like The Matrix baby, a projectile of presumably now flat warm champagne.
I realized this wasn't going to end well so I asked him to fetch my phone upstairs, bid him a swift adieu in absentia and with my phone safely in my jacket pocket left the hell of one night stands with teeny tiny but ferocious lawyers behind in my driving mirror to find solace, a headache tablet and a sachet of Eno at a 24hr outlet. In my socks.
Under a bed roughly 20km from me lies a pair of gently worn butter soft Gucci loafers (size 10) left behind when I fled like a refugee.
Two things before I go. Please circulate this post enough that I can go buy another pair of Gucci shoes - as you know, all it took to change Cinderella's life was a good pair of shoes and a night out.
And secondly never judge a suave lawyer in an Armani suit by the proverbial cover. What lay under those well tailored covers was very underwhelming and very disappointing.
