Wow! Went off to Michael’s house last night with J. He was hosting a Eurovision party in his London house. It’s one of those Chelsea houses that looks like a beautifully iced wedding-cake. J had been invited because she met Michael through some thing the firm organised.
Anyhoo, we got there, and the place was incredible. Waiters handing round Cristal champagne and delicious nibbles, three vast flatscreens showing the contest, place stuffed with rich men and the sort of thin women that make you want to run to the toilet and slit your throat. And I hadn’t been able to wear my favouritest dress because I couldn’t get the zip up. So it was a black Prada standby. But I did have some terrific shoes.
Really peculiar watching Eurovision as there’s something strangely SEXY about the entries, isn’t there? Even though they are nearly all so silly and naff. It’s like going on holiday and getting this thing for one of the waiters…
I really wanted to see Michael, because I was so so impressed by his house, and his friends. I kept saying to J, where IS he? (Eurovision party a very good idea if you don’t know anyone as you can just smile knowingly at the screen while drinking bubbles and you don’t look like a no-friend loser.) And then, around 9, she dug me in the ribs.
She’s right about the peculiar-shaped head. And he’s bald. And at least three inches shorter than me (but I was wearing Laboutins). And he’s one of those fat, sweatyish men that makes you think of cheese. Damp Caerphilly. He hadn’t got a jacket on, and you could see wet patches. And when I took his hand it was damp, too. But he had a nice smile.
You know, he’s the sort of man I’d never even look at. But his being so rich makes a scary difference…
