Driver clocked me from last Thursday’s drop-off in Dalston and asked if I was going back to the same block. I wasn’t. Still tipped him. He’ll tell someone.
Category: Nights Out
Soho to a night bus, heels in my bag, surge on the app. The dress survives or it does not. I leave with a story, a stain, or both, usually both.
I Kept The Hotel Keycard
Not because I’m sentimental. Because the lighting in that bathroom was criminal and I might need the room number if the photo does numbers. Research. Obviously.
Shoreditch Rain Ruined The Dress
The white one. Of course the white one. He offered his jacket. I offered nothing back except a very wet anecdote.
Peckham Roof Was A Mistake
Beautiful at midnight. Tragic at 4am. Someone’s cousin DJ’d, the wine was warm, and I snogged a man whose name I still cannot spell. Classic, really.
Hackney Wick At Half Four
The night bus felt like a confession booth. I told a stranger what I’d just done. He said “safe”. Very London.
Members Club Then Sticky Floor
Started at 22. Ended in a basement where the floor pulled my heels off. That’s the London arc and I refuse to skip either half.
Night Bus Confessional Went Viral
I tweeted one line. Forty people asked for the rest. Fine. Here’s the rest, names changed, details not.
Queue For Pret Became Therapy
Two girls I didn’t know asked why I was in last night’s dress at 8am. I told them. They bought my coffee. Community.
His Flatmate Walked In
We weren’t even mid-anything dramatic. Just talking too loud at 3am. The flatmate made tea, sat down, and asked if this was “a regular thing.” I said define regular. He left.
Last Tube Then Walked
Missed it on purpose because he lived in Bermondsey and the night wasn’t finished. Blisters, a stolen espresso martini in a plastic cup, and a sunrise I will absolutely post.