call me paranoia (no pippi i did not say paranormal*, thats your schtick). paranoia. like one moment i love it here, the next i’m like what the fuck. taking the kids to school with a hangover, possibly still drunk, is a first. leaving said husband at 1 am, in the sexy, what the hell your wife will never know decor of his W suite, is also a first. not soon to be repeated. dinner is fun. although too many pr girls, too few guys at our table. but. around us. dozens of tables with men. men on business trips. retired men. young men and old men. a new demographic for me. old men. very old men. not sure that i’m flattered. a table of three clearly very wealthy, very well groomed geezers. still with the times cool: they wear their crisp PINK shirts with wide white cuffs and enormous lapidus style gold cufflinks, outside their slacks. eye me. talk and laugh and look around at me. they almost point. i feel like a sophomore singled out by seniors (pardon da pun). later mr chow floats by, doing obligatory i’m the star you came to meet handshakes around our table. shakes mine. i’m not gonna say anything. but said husband does. she knew you back in the day in london. he says. (i cringe, he must get that all the time). yes i did i smile. london 1976, when i was hot and you were hot, i came to the knightsbridge restaurant all the time. i drop some mutual friends names. he does the math. 33 years. wow thats along time. he says. its jesus’ lifetime, i say. (where did that come from?). but he died. mr. chow says. he sure did i say.  and we’re still here. we both say sounding strangely proud.

note to W: after twoandhalf ginger mojitos (delicious) it is: A. really hard to find the WC and 2. impossible to distinguish which figure is wearing the pants and which the dress. case in point: i come out of the booth, still somewhat adjusting myself, and the booth next to me opens and a guy steps out, also quite clearly still adjusting himself in that way guys do.
he acts shocked. i’m shocked. i’m not sure i’m the one who got into the wrong WC. isn’t this the mens, he says. i wonder if he says this all the time. i wash my hands. i hope he’s gone. i leave. but there he is. loitering. studying the pants and the dress on the cutouts. phew, i was definitely in the loo with the dress. thats when i get the feeling he gets it wrong all the time. conveniently. i wonder if he ever scores that way.
i get back to my spot to find that mister miami has finally arrived. sits next to me. i tell him my girls call him eeyore. why he asks. this is why: last week he got stuck in our mini elevator. the one with the astro turf and flowers on the walls. just like a milne illustration. he was in there for what? ten minutes. the girls panicked. when we finally got him out. he said. i’ve been stuck in worse places, in that “I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don’t mention it”, kind of way. i explain. he tells me it’d make a good blog. him getting stuck in tiesto’s elevator.

so here you are. tom. this one’s for you. and by the way tom. your comment about being graceful and homey. that suggestion is under consideration.

* for details on pippi see comments from philipa in – children are never a weakness – post