Three girls in a cubicle at 4am swapping who they’d just left in the main room. Names, positions, who came, who didn’t. I wrote it down in Notes. Gold.
Tag: socialite
Sophie Heard The Lot
Thin walls, worse timing. I wasn’t quiet and she wasn’t asleep. Next morning she just slid a Tesco meal deal under my door like a peace offering. We still haven’t discussed it. Peak.
Why I Never Delete Hinge
Everyone’s pretending they’re done with apps. I’m not. It’s research. Also I get bored on the District line and some of these boys write like they’ve never met a woman. Useful.
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.
She Said I Looked Cheap
Some girl in the queue for the loo, full face on, calling my dress tarty. I smiled, took a photo anyway, and posted it before last orders. She can cope.
Afters With No Speakers
Ended up in a warehouse kitchen in Hackney Wick, twelve people, one Bluetooth dying, someone’s Deliveroo arriving at 6am. I still call it a party. Sophie calls it a cry for help.
Cloakroom Queue Was Criminal
Soho, Saturday, one toilet cubicle with a lock that actually worked. We still managed. I lost an earring and gained a story. The attendant definitely knew. I tipped her anyway.
Flat Chat Named The Regular
They’ve given him a nickname. I won’t repeat it. It’s accurate. He still thinks he’s mysterious.
House Party Ended At Breakfast
Someone put porridge on. Someone else was still naked. I wrote half the piece on my notes app between bites.
Anal In The Back Of Uber
Rain on the windows, driver pretending not to notice. I was already wet from the club. He asked, I said yes. We didn’t even make it to his door.