The setting was best described by Joey in her WhatsApp briefing message to me: ‘Get off at Chuisi. Ask for La Foce Villa. It’s huge. It’s ridiculous. It’s like an Agatha Christie novel.’
Say what you like about wealthy Moroccan nightclub-managing, boat-owning party boys, but their hosting etiquette does their mothers proud.
This… this is how all Friday’s should look.
Somewhere between Aussies in uniform, sweaty boys in Bintang beer singlets, plentiful cheap beers, we had stepped through a black hole to an Australia that never quite existed. It was 4pm. We could stay here all night.
There was only one little problem with this genius plan.
The relevant double-page of my diary looks like three drunken spiders had bathed in ink then played Holi there: ‘mum arrives’ is scrawled in blue next to the smudged black ink of ‘print Alice tickets!’ near ‘Wales? 1pm?’ in hesitant green. I had my first real visitor and I was determined to show her as wide a spectrum of London as I possibly could. Apologies if this post reads like a shopping list of London activities. That’s how it felt.
‘Oh my god!’ I say, ever so wittily.
‘Oh my god,’ she returns, also demonstrating an enviable mastery of the English language.
Welcome to a world where the only way into the club on Saturday at 10pm is a £400 bottle of champagne.