So last night I donned a posh frock and took tea at the Ritz. Which would have been lovely had I a) not got soaked in a torrential downpour on the way there and b) watched in horror while the worst kind of Essex girl (yes, one of our party, joy) attempted to smuggle out a tea strainer in her cleavage before lighting up an Embassy No 1 outside and trying to seduce the concierge.
I always feel out of place around these brassy women, with their GHD hair and lipstick and French manicures and Tiffany hearts and minor coke habits. They spend so much time and money preening themselves to perfection - only to let themselves down the second they open their loud, crass mouths and screech "alwight, darlin'?". And yet they make me feel so inferior, so small, so... straight. I just go to wallpaper in their company, and try not to let them see my unkempt fingernails. It's like being back at school when you haven't got the 'right' accessory of the moment. Pathetic at my age, really.