25 April - Pub Quizzers & Millionaires
Am considering re-naming this blog 'Lisa goes out, practically every night even whens she hadn't planned to'. Once again the evening goes in a different direction from the planned one... as we go to a pub quiz in leafy West London street.
We rescue the sad team of three that we’ve joined and dazzle them with our knowledge which allows us to end at #2 with a bottle of wine - the winners had three times as many in their team so er… more chances to come up with answers, but shame on me for mixing Peaches and Pixie Geldof up. How could I? I mean it was bad enough back in the days having to see mum Paula in the papers every other day but right now the family has multiplied and so there’s no escape. Or I should just avoid ever picking up those stupid free papers. Anyway, our efforts see us invited next month. We’ll do a bit of revision by then.
We lose one member of the team but the other two ask us along to drinks at the Electric. They’re in their fifties and pretty good company. One is a lawyer for Katie and Peter. Notice it's Katie with an ie. so er no the model who did not design her range of clothes for TopShop. He tells us they how much better/smarter than the Beckhams they are, but sadly does not divulge any other details. He’s very good (and on coffee rather than tongue loosening alcohol), doesn’t have a bad word to say about any of his clients, says there’s one he can’t get rid of.. I wonder who it is, maybe it's Corinne Bailey Rae? This year's Dido? Surely he must yawn each time he has to have a meeting with her? He, not saying, but am sure we’ll meet again.
His pal is a Holland Park dwelling venture capitalist (I buy him 2 drinks, he doesn’t buy me any… charming) married to a well known political Times journalist She’s a bit right wing for me but have found myself agreeing with her on a number of occasions which is er, worrying. Anyway she’s very prolific and as usual am awed by how much some women write. Miss Snark, the literary agent who blogs, said in one of her Moses style edicts that ‘blogging is not writing’. I totally agree and never confuse the two. But it hurts.
So… the husband is intent on creating mischief by throwing little questions into the mix, one being ‘How many secret relationships do you think one can handle?’
I answer two, (aside from the official wife/girlfriend) there can comfortably be only two and of those two, one mistress must be aware of the other secret one. And oh, if one is in another town/country that helps tremendously.
But I don’t have direct experience of that. My instances of affairs are minimal . I was the other woman a few times but never myself had two on the go. Loyal like that… Or actually maybe briefly, memory fails but think it was when the boyf in question was not that steady.
Another round tabler asks VC if he’s counting prostitutes into the equation and right on cue some immensely unattractive man walks past closely followed by two tall black girls wearing belts in lieu of miniskirts. All the men around the table say the can only be prostitutes given he’s so old and ugly but I’d wager that every single one of them is probably thinking ‘Wish that was me having to toss those two around tonight’. I am the only one saying that maybe the girls are his PA’s or some such and probably only there for a drink and not for orgy later but am shouted down. VC asks more questions and I have the presence of mind to say ‘Er, this is turning into a psychological forum that I’m not comfortable with’ given the BF is suddenly interested in my answes (ah, how I go about using legalese knowing a lawyer is present) and we drop it. We change the subject and I start talking to this clearly mad girl who works in Hatton Gardens and who mistakes my Swarowski for a real diamond ring. Granted, it’s pretty good and suddenly I don’t think she’s that mad as I wouldn’t mind being given a little tour of her shop. But it’s midweek and time to go.
We rescue the sad team of three that we’ve joined and dazzle them with our knowledge which allows us to end at #2 with a bottle of wine - the winners had three times as many in their team so er… more chances to come up with answers, but shame on me for mixing Peaches and Pixie Geldof up. How could I? I mean it was bad enough back in the days having to see mum Paula in the papers every other day but right now the family has multiplied and so there’s no escape. Or I should just avoid ever picking up those stupid free papers. Anyway, our efforts see us invited next month. We’ll do a bit of revision by then.
We lose one member of the team but the other two ask us along to drinks at the Electric. They’re in their fifties and pretty good company. One is a lawyer for Katie and Peter. Notice it's Katie with an ie. so er no the model who did not design her range of clothes for TopShop. He tells us they how much better/smarter than the Beckhams they are, but sadly does not divulge any other details. He’s very good (and on coffee rather than tongue loosening alcohol), doesn’t have a bad word to say about any of his clients, says there’s one he can’t get rid of.. I wonder who it is, maybe it's Corinne Bailey Rae? This year's Dido? Surely he must yawn each time he has to have a meeting with her? He, not saying, but am sure we’ll meet again.
His pal is a Holland Park dwelling venture capitalist (I buy him 2 drinks, he doesn’t buy me any… charming) married to a well known political Times journalist She’s a bit right wing for me but have found myself agreeing with her on a number of occasions which is er, worrying. Anyway she’s very prolific and as usual am awed by how much some women write. Miss Snark, the literary agent who blogs, said in one of her Moses style edicts that ‘blogging is not writing’. I totally agree and never confuse the two. But it hurts.
So… the husband is intent on creating mischief by throwing little questions into the mix, one being ‘How many secret relationships do you think one can handle?’
I answer two, (aside from the official wife/girlfriend) there can comfortably be only two and of those two, one mistress must be aware of the other secret one. And oh, if one is in another town/country that helps tremendously.
But I don’t have direct experience of that. My instances of affairs are minimal . I was the other woman a few times but never myself had two on the go. Loyal like that… Or actually maybe briefly, memory fails but think it was when the boyf in question was not that steady.
Another round tabler asks VC if he’s counting prostitutes into the equation and right on cue some immensely unattractive man walks past closely followed by two tall black girls wearing belts in lieu of miniskirts. All the men around the table say the can only be prostitutes given he’s so old and ugly but I’d wager that every single one of them is probably thinking ‘Wish that was me having to toss those two around tonight’. I am the only one saying that maybe the girls are his PA’s or some such and probably only there for a drink and not for orgy later but am shouted down. VC asks more questions and I have the presence of mind to say ‘Er, this is turning into a psychological forum that I’m not comfortable with’ given the BF is suddenly interested in my answes (ah, how I go about using legalese knowing a lawyer is present) and we drop it. We change the subject and I start talking to this clearly mad girl who works in Hatton Gardens and who mistakes my Swarowski for a real diamond ring. Granted, it’s pretty good and suddenly I don’t think she’s that mad as I wouldn’t mind being given a little tour of her shop. But it’s midweek and time to go.
Labels: going out, horny friends
posted by Lisa Taylor @ 6:08 AM
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