You can’t live on shoes

Want to bet? In the last week I’ve bought two pairs, both absolutely necessary. First pair is pale pink suede, high heel, round toe, for Therese’s wedding. Second pair are black patent leather with pink trim, the most blatant (and therefore best) Marc Jacobs’ knock-off I’ve seen. Wanted to go to a photo booth today and take a picture of my feet in them, but have you seen the size of those things? Don’t think I could get my leg level with my face in a space that size (not that I can ever get my leg level with my face, but whatever).

Last night was the Sleater-Kinney gig, and we put on an after show party for them. Carrie announced it from the stage, we flyered like crazy, but despite all our best efforts we just about broke even. The venue for the party was just off Oxford Street, and sadly I think that on non-event nights, it’s a major pikey watering hole. By midnight I was very glad there were bouncers on the door: a trio of trouble-seeking folk paid their money and despite being told that it was a party for a band, took their chances. It seemed easier to let them in than turn them away, I guess, even though they asked one of our door staff if there were any ‘gays in there’. Within ten minutes Mr Homophobe was being escorted from the premises, wife and friend in tow. He claimed a young girl with a quiff had tried to kick/glass him. So the bouncers had to go find her, and she was brought, tearful and confused, upstairs. I think they let her go when they realised that the guy was just looking for a scapegoat, but he still stood and argued with the bouncer for a good ten minutes. A choice snippet I overheard was ‘you’d take the word of a bunch of lesbians over mine, a man, with a wife!’.

After a further kerfuffle with a quartet of trendy, coked up fashion PRs, who spent two minutes at the party and then demanded their money back, shaking their Vuitton bags at Margarita with rage, I left. Well, I guess we learned what not to do.