Twitter@bodaciousquotacious. The purpose of our lives is to be happy. The Dalai Llama

October 7, 2009

 I’m going to dust down the cobwebs and shake my booty at the Mansion tonight. This supposedly super-chic restaurant set in a small excuse for a mansion and overlooking a  park famed for flashers and a surplus of dog plop is doing so badly for punters on account of its rather tasteless decor that its manager leases it out to club promoters once a month. I tried eating here once but the smell of the fish glue they used to stick the orange rubber flooring down kind of overpowered the sushi. I later heard from my DJ friend Salamander, that the guy who bought this place is into gimp attire and sado-masochism. OK so this is one place I won’t be scouting for work. As open-minded as I think I am I can’t work for a guy who walks around on all fours attached to a lead for fun. Still, the club nights are wicked and it’s the only place close enough to walk home from after getting my dance fix.

Tonight I have gone for chic rather than foxy. I am wearing my favourite part-suede part-patent purple and blue Miu Mius, a midnight blue Vanessa Bruno dress and the hair is up and back and styled with To Sho bands in an Audrey Hepburn stylee do. “You told me to dress sexy,” says my Polish au pair friend Kasia (Cancer), “You look so smaaaarrt.” If by smart she means I don’t look kinda slutty which Kasia has gone for, her low cut leopard print dress flashing a pair of boobs which are so tightly pushed together she looks like she has a bum on her chest, then she’s right. Our idea of sexy is clearly very different but, kerching, mine seems to be pulling in the boys.

I get us a couple of JD and Cokes. “The man at the end of the bar would like to buy you a bottle of champagne,” says the  latex-loving owner who must be short-staffed since he is working as barman tonight.  I look to my left and spot a 5 foot troll of a man dressed in a kind of Miami Vice get up with the sleeves rolled up on his pastel pinstripe jacket and long ginger hair tied back in to a limp pony tail. He starts waving and gesturing for me to come over. He clearly doesn’t recognize me. “Thanks but I’m sorted,” I shout to the person I last saw picking up his daughter from Nancy’s school. Good God, I talk to his gorgeous wife all the time. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

And just as tonight is starting to unravel and look like the biggest mistake since Gordon Brown  I spy the most drop dead gorgeous man walking into the room. The people dancing close to me seem to go into slow motion as I turn, he smiles, I flash a smile with a Princess Diana duck of the eyes back and Mr 6ft tall, dark and handsome sidles over.

“Hi, you here with friends?” I say

“Yes I am, madame, you having fun?”

He has a lovely accent, the bluest eyes and dark, dark spiky hair.

“Where are you from? “ I ask, unable to decipher the accent.

“Sweden by way of Italy.”

I’m in fucking heaven!!

“I’m Joachim. What’s your name.”

“Abi”

“Abeeeeee, I’m in fucking heaven. Come and meet my friend Jan,”

 We walk towards an equally gorgeous but blond man I take to be Swedish too. The next twenty minutes is taken up with two guys fighting over me by trying to outcharm me and outwit each other. Who cares if this is possibly some kind of Swedish line-up for a threesome? I’m loving it. Kasia has gone home with the gimp owner/barman and I am here with two guys who look like they just dropped straight off the catwalk. Looks like I am following the Dalai Llama’s philosophy to the letter but when did Happy feel this Good?

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