Last night was a surprise. I had expected to spend an evening alone frantically working on new ideas to sell for money. Instead I got a call from a chum saying that there was some gallery opening in St James, and well things went a bit wrong.
Free booze was mentioned, so I pulled myself together, found a semi-decent shirt and set off. A short, rather warm tube journey later and I was sipping faux-champagne and looking at extremely expensive prints of cats by Andy Warhol. Honestly, some people do spend an awful lot on art when they could be buying motorcycles with their money.
The event was rather jolly, we met a photographer who attached himself to our group and then a strange Hungarian man called 'Mr Wells'. He just breezed up to us and introduced himself and then told us his entire family history. I liked the fact he asked for our first names but he was more formal and insisted on being called Mr Wells. After Mr Wells had revealed when his great-uncle had decided to come to London but failed we ran off to my chums club for drinks. Mr Wells didn't join us which was probably for the best as the blighter just wouldn't stop talking about distant relatives and their position on the globe.
We arrived with the photographer who had decided to join us. So we grabbed a table, drank rosé, ate artichokes and roared with laughter while talking about fingerless gloves and tinfoil parrots. I like going to that club but I fear, if I became a member I would go rather too much.
I'm all for becoming an old soak, but I just can't afford to do it just yet.
