a night in west london

in a suite, in a hotel, in west london. all we want is to eat to pesto pasta, but we wait for the mains to arrive. and then nearly drink them with a bottle of smuggled portuguese wine. a glass of which proceeds to walk all by itself along the table, much to the amusement, puzzlement and ultimately complete freak out of both hostess and guestess. stories of ouija boards and summertimes ensue. the night manager doesn't believe us. he's seen plenty of murder, prostitution and drug deals, but never a glass of wine spontanously and autonomously walk across the table, so there you have it. and so the hats go on and it's off to the champagne bar, why not. berries and passion fruit and lychees, as you like. and yes, for someone who's not in love it's true that i talk a lot about love. don't i know it. but it's just as hard to exorcise a good breakfast hug as it is a wandering glass of wine. and it will take a lot of, yes, more wine, and travelling, i say! chit chat chit chat. mmmmhhhmmm, yes isn't it funny. all the things you tell me always make sense. with or without the 15 minutes of required concentration. let's go back upstairs and get some popcorn, yes, let's. and swoosh, propelled into the night. the perfect man asks me up to his flat for a drink. he's tall and blond and blue eyed and dashing and well spoken and has a flat in sloane square. and all he wants from me, he says, is a drink. a last drink. but i'm tired and weary and sceptical. and tonight i really don't fancy fighting a man off my back, even the perfect man, and so i let him go on his way, slightly miffed (probably wondering how come, being the perfect man, he's going home on his own) but there is always a certain satisfaction to be had from having had the perfect night, with the perfect friend, in the perfect bar. and letting the perfect man go by, cos you know what. i. don't. fucking. need. him. cheers! good night...