Ah, Chez Maman. It is the size on an average bathroom and entirely black. Maman and the girls descend down a rickety precarious staircase to riotous applause and lip synch from the top of the bar to Shirley Bassey and The Gossip. Maman is seriously burly. "I would recognise those calves anywhere" said Wafflechild as she sashayed down the ladder for her second number. A wild eyed Irish man told us that I was like Joan Collins and he was Doris Day. We had huge fun. I fell into a coma on the Ektorp at 3 and woke up with a face full of dribble and an eye stuck shut with caked eyeliner. Marvellous. I would go back in a heartbeat, especially now that we know the secret code to get back out. Especially for that.
Tonight is Pochyemu's legendary TWITTER PARTY. to put faces to many many pseudonyms and tiny avatars. I can't wait. What with the gin, and the drag queen sweat, and the bar full of chain smoking (and stroking) beautiful small men, I am wearing a very special scent for the evening, named for the occasion by Lucy Fishwife as "Eau de Slutte Hors Taxe". It's packed full of alluring amnesia, lost keys and money and pathetically dissolute waffleness. I have malnutrition spots from my diet of cookies and melted cheese and some kind of carbuncle in the corner of my eye that might be sequin burn. I hope it is very very dark. I will report back as fully as my ailing brain will allow, but now I have to seize the moment and run off to Anthropologie. For as many house style trinkets as I can stuff into my capacious handbag.