The minotaurs aren’t real, the minotaurs aren’t real
He scrawls his number on a card. “You have trouble, you call me, Alexandra.” (The Greeks love my name.) “Just call,” he urges, eyes crinkling around the edges.
Tag Archives: chandler
White Islands
Have I said this before? How wonderfully disorientating I find it to land in a foreign place after dark, not knowing what to expect when you wake the next day…
Eyes up, boys!
The day starts properly when Chandler, goofing around, cuts his face on the salt of his giant pretzel and bleeds on it. The first injury of the day — and there will be many.
“What the f— is Ushuaïa?”
Say what you like about wealthy Moroccan nightclub-managing, boat-owning party boys, but their hosting etiquette does their mothers proud.
#NeverSleep
This… this is how all Friday’s should look.
Duck, duck, haggis
Which involves a little bit of Harry Potter and a little bit of Jane Austen.
Cucumber gin & blazers in the west; vodka & grit in East London.
At Henley, as at Ascot, the spectrum of different British classes are laid out like a rainbow. If I was on the very royal Violet end of that rainbow Ascot, I’m towards the cheap and cheerful Red end for Henley
Let London swallow you whole.
“Am I dying?”
“No, it’s just London.”
The Riga alphabet: Aperšbiksen, Black Balzam, cider, daiquiris.
This weekend we went to Riga. As you do.
Toto, we’re not in Africa anymore.
My resting bitch face is no longer resting.
