My New Gay Best Friend

I was so miserable yesterday evening, and then I decided to take the advice offered by the kind people who visit this website and ring Pym. He told me to come round at once – said he’d been wanting to ring me but hadn’t been able to get hold of my number from Rache because she was out nightclubbing with Vasilius and Dimitrius.
So I went to Maida Vale, which is a lovely safe place to go to at night, its streets seemingly empty except for well-groomed Arabs and their servants. Pym had opened some champagne (it is all he drinks, apparently), and made some crostini things to eat, and he sat me down and told me not to worry about the cards, they all had positive meanings as well as bad ones. In fact he said the same sort of thing Miggins and Topiary and had. And then he asked me if I wanted to try again, and held out the cards. So I took a deep breath and held them in my hands for a while (you are supposed to suffuse them with your being etc) and then picked out 7. And it was really weird, but I got pretty much the same cards as before, with the Tower in the middle. Pym said this nearly always happens. He studied the cards for ages, then told me not to worry, it was actually quite positive. He said there are going to be really massive changes in my life very very soon, and everything I’m used to will be turned upside down. But after that, I will find a lot of wonderful, good, positive things happening, and my life will actually be better.
I felt so much happier after this. And we just chatted away for hours. It’s amazing talking to him because he is so gorgeous and so kind. (He said he adored my shoes. I had worn one of my favourite pairs to cheer myself up. They are pink.) And he told me about a great vintage shop to go to, and then I told him about THE BOOK and he said he wished they’d write something similar for gays, as he is always getting his heart broken. (Though Rache has told me that he goes for incredibly beautiful, vain, shallow young men, so this is pretty much bound to happen.)I even told him about this blog, and he said it sounded like a ‘chick-lit blog’, which I suppose it is. There was something v pleasurable, in a weird way, about having such an intimate chat with a man I could never have sex with. I’ve never had a close gay best friend, but I can really see the appeal now.

Date with Destiny - Aaagh!

http://www.williams-sonoma.com/wsimgs/rk/images/rcp-images/Recipe/Flourless-ChocolateTorte.jpgThe date with Michael was both worrying and blissful, in equal measures. We were meeting at Quo Vadis in Soho. I wore my best LBD (it’s always back to black if you feel fat) with a belt made of exciting satiny ribbon from VV Rouleaux. This is supposed to be a thrifty thing to do. (In all the broadsheets’ top tips for saving money in a slump.) But you should see the price of that ribbon! I have some great black stilettoes, too. (Did think of wearing flats cos of how short he is, but then most rich men go for taller ladies, don’t they?)
He was ten minutes late and on the phone when he arrived. But he had warned the staff and he had booked a brilliant table, and they opened a bottle of champagne just for me while I waited for him.) He smelled of Eau Sauvage, and was wearing a nicely-cut suit – so cunningly contrived it almost made him look fit.
It’sgorgeous in Quo Vadis – all frosted mirrors, polished silver and white linen. I had crab talgiatelle and fillet steak with béarnaise. The worrying bit was when we were all settled with our food and he said he felt so terrible because he’d never offered me the advice I’d asked for at the breakfast. And what had I wanted to consult him about?
So there was nothing for it but to fib and say I’d been thinking of setting up an agency on my own (with an imaginary inheritance from an aunt). He looked grave and said it was the worst possible time for a new venture, and I said how I’d heard recessions were times of opportunity too.(Thus looking like a lively, rich businesswoman, and perfect consort.) It all flowed along until he said it was lucky I had the inheritance to fall back on as he’d heard my firm was in trouble, and looking to lay people off Aaagh! The minute I heard that I got in a panic and the chocolate torte turned to ash in my mouth. And even hearing he’d seen me at the Private View and longed to speak to me,and that the tall blonde he was with was the artist (a client’s wife) – explains why the pics were so rubbish – did not make things better.
I was so distracted our goodbyes were rather brief. (Wet kiss alittle bit like terrier slobber on my cheek.) What do I do if he tells my boss (one of his best mates) I’m rolling in it and want to start up on my own?Aargh!

The Glass is Half-Empty

The Private View was disappointing. The things we were viewing were – predictably - terrible photographs taken by a talentless madman. But on the plus side, there was good champagne. I never saw the artist. He wasn’t standing around looking arty and tortured the way they usually do.
As advised by Topiary, I’d gone for the Rene Russo look. I was getting my highlights done anyway, so I’d asked them to put my hair up in a French pleat, and I nipped home after and changed into a split tweed skirt, brown boots, and a rollneck sweater. It felt nice in the cool, rain-washed streets on the way to the view, but when Jasmine and I got there it became unbearable, because the room was so hot. I started sweating, my neck prickled, and even wearing my special sausage-skin knickers my skirt rode up ridiculously. Also, when I caught sight of myself reflected in one of the stupid photos I realised the pleat wasn’t flattering. I looked the way Anonymous always sees me: like a porky dominatrix (quite topical, really, considering the Mosley trial). The place had filled up to crush-point by the time Michael arrived. AND he had one of those awful, thin, hyper-groomed, ultra-chic women with him. The sort that make any average woman just want to curl up and die. She had incredible teeth, and tits that couldn’t be real, and she was gripping his arm and leaning in to him. (Well, more like bending down – she was jolly tall. It created a bizarre effect, like a mummy seeing her child off on his first day at school.) I don’t know if he saw me. Jasmine wanted me to go up and introduce myself etc, but I couldn’t bear to. Instead we slunk out. And had cocktails in a bar. So I suppose my last hope with Michael, now, is the magic spell on the 18th. If that doesn’t work I’m giving up.