Wednesdays in London mean only one thing. Quality time with James and his Golders Green flat (well you know me and Jewish boys..)
The deal is I dress pretty and it cheers him up, makes him forget his impotence momentarily, so I wear something along the lines of a Karen Millen dress and Kurt Geiger peep toes and meet him in whatever restaurant is to his liking that month, it’s usually the restaurant he hasn’t been kicked out of; his temper was always unstable. On most days we only stay for a glass of wine; 2005 Brégeon is my current favourite. After a walk around the V&A it’s usually approaching rush hour(s) so we slink back to the comfort and quiet of his apartment. Last time he ate sushi off my bare body because that’s how he can get his kicks but I couldn’t get the stench of sashimi salmon off for days so this time we stuck to a bottle of Cristal for the main and caviar for afters. I hate the stuff but it makes me feel more refined and James feels like he’s looking after me so I eat it. I know it’s not nice but I’m glad he’s impotent otherwise I would feel somewhat obliged. James gives me a Montecristo Cuban cigar for putting up with him (and if he cries he takes me to the Hummingbird Bakery and let’s me have four of those amazing cupcakes) and lights up a spliff, I’m not too partial to weed so I light up my cigar in the corner and stifle my coughs and splutters; he still hasn’t caught on that I don’t smoke… or that he is fifteen years my senior.
Wednesdays in Manchester usually mean Lakota and a night called Filthy Rich… a night where the filthy rich would never be caught at. And with drinks at £1.25 it’s almost a contradiction in terms. But sometimes we go for a “quiet one” around Fallowfield instead and end up crawling from the Gin Club, to Revolutions, to Font back to Baa Bar or Queen of Hearts and after I collapse into my bed, in comfortable shoes and unpretentious people and I remember why sometimes London life is a lot of hard work, sometimes you need a break.