There is little that beats a night out with close friends. Yesterday I travelled home from Covent Garden to return a few hours later in St. Christopher’s Place for dinner at Carluccio's with Chuckle and Mancini, where we sat huddled around a table set for six- considering I had a meat platter for two it almost made sense. We then continued our drinking in a Moroccan-esque bar (i.e. a place filled with ‘authentic’ tat I could have bought down Dalston for a fiver) where Mancini almost spilt the entire table and contents over her lap and we discussed the raging power of Karma and it’s ability to bite you hard in the bottom when you least expect it.
We then wondered about a bit, rambling with both mouths and legs until we came to the Pigalle Club (Piccadilly) where we escaped paying an astronomical cover charge by Mancini recognising the male host through a previous modelling job, and I think the clincher was, “ I remember you running around a Narnia replica set without your clothes on.” He hurried us inside to escape the bouncer’s sniggering.
The Pigalle Club is an incredibly surreal place, especially if you arrive half way through a performance by a sixty-year-old Scottish solo artist with Dolly Parton breasts singing My Heart Will Go On and then braking into ABBA intro’s whilst you order a bottle of wine in silence by excessive gesticulating.
We were the last to leave, our conversation had run on the subject of bad sex and worse bedfellows, naming and shaming horrible exes and unfortunate one night stands. Chuckle had recently ended her relationship as they’ve both finished university and ought to go their separate ways, but it was clear for most of the night he had situated himself at the back of her mind and gotten cosy. I firmly believe she’s better off without him, if your ever unsure they say the best path is the solo one. I’m also very interested to see what she comes up with next- being a complete nympho she’s a great catch.  
I behaved shockingly toward the end of the evening, upsetting Mancini and Chuckle by actually (and I can’t believe I’m going to use this word) gushing about The Musician. I’m going to have to write them both a long letter of apology…or send a sincere text telling them never to repeat what I said. I blame it on the wine, and all those subliminal messages that I’m convinced are carried with the music he sends. Today I have Fleetwood Mac – Second Hand News.
I’m furious, I knew this would happen if we had sex, and now I’m all chemically attached.