City Blokes

It has been a looooong time since I wrote on here last.

Good. Because I am crap at keeping secrets and even though I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't tell anyone I wrote on here, and I'd keep it like an online diary just for my eyes, I got drunk. And told some friends.

But now I hope they've given up all hope of me ever posting again ("hope" I say! Like they are waiting with baited breath for the next thrilling installment! Have I got tickets on myself or WHAT?? {oh and a ps - why 'baited' breath? as if their next gasp might entice a metaphorical fish, i.e. a juicy literary bite from yours truly? I am a twat, aren't I?})

Anyway, yeah. So I can post again now, only for my eyes, and the eyes of you Randoms out there who might stumble across this blog.

So. What have I done today which has provoked me into putting finger to keys?

Nowt much. I went on a business lunch (sounds good, eh? Like I am a thrusting young power-hungry corporate bitch? okay, let's KEEP that image in our heads, yeah? It SUITS me) and it was in the City with a capital C cos that's what you have to call it when you are of London. If you are not of London, let's just say I went to lunch in the old middle bit of London near where St Pauls is and that, and all the streets nearby have names like "Cutyerthroat Street" and "Pigsblood Alley". Really. look at a map.

Yeah. So I went to lunch, Conran restaurant daaaaaaahling, nice grub but it was full of guffawing besuited young hoorays with their unruly public school haircuts that they HAVE to have because otherwise what would they do with their hands if they weren't running their fingers through it all the time? Watch 'em, they run their hands through their mop of blonde Fotherington-Thomas curls if they are anxious, or if they are trying to make a point, or even if they are merely leaning back smugly in their chairs listening to a colleague, sneakily trying to catch a glimpse of their own wondrousness in a reflection in the back of a spoon on the table, or a chrome ashtray they've picked up off the table, attempting to appear as if they are just marvelling at the design.

But this wasn't supposed to be about their hair, that was a meander. No, what I meant to go on about was their dress. One man in particular. He had red braces on. Now take a breath. Red braces, yes that's right. I mean COME ON! It is the Noughties not the flipping EIGHTIES! What is WITH the red braces???? Do you think you are a Wall Street trader in some film with Rob Lowe???? It was later pointed out to me that not only did he have RED BRACES but he also had RED SOCKS and BROWN SHOES.

HOW, I ask, in maybe quite unnecessarily loud tones, HOW are City Types allowed to get away with these crimes?? Fair enough if it was a Harry Ramp, but these blokes have, quite obviously, more money than [fashion] sense. WHY has he done this? And he can't be the only one. The answer, my long-suffering chums, is that all his money has given him such supreme self confidence that he simply doesn't care that he is livin' in the 80s. He luuuuurves the 80s, and all that they symbolised - Thatcher, loadsamoney, coke and champagne binges (but not Live Aid and that). And yet he was probably only about 10 in the 80s. It is like my Boss coming to work in a Mary Quant mini-dress. It simply ain't on.