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.
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.
Which involves a little bit of Harry Potter and a little bit of Jane Austen.
It’s only in typing this post out that I realise I might just be a little homesick.
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
“Am I dying?”
“No, it’s just London.”
“It’s a stress headache, so you should drink your wine.” Forget doctors, see Twiggy for medical advice. Our resident medical expert tops up Paris’s wineglass.
Even a girl with a such a sensible head as mine can’t help but fall lose it over. It keeps happening, all the time. I caught it happening at least a couple of times this week, this dizzying, headfirst rush.
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.