The Price of Fame

Sorry, I was a bit slack last week - since I was featured in theguardian, I've been fielding calls from call centres all over the vast subcontinent of India wanting to know if I'm happy with my package. Not to mention calls from Max Clifford and literary agents.

So the weekend before last we headed out to Julie's to celebrate her birthday.
(Manners don’t prevent me from saying how old Julie was, but my keyboard doesn’t have numbers that big.) We headed over to Lee and Keirsty’s to celebrate with the cuisine of two former colonies. The negotiations for the order were more involved than the Doha trade round, but I emerged triumphant, managing to maintain my demands for a full Naan bread and mixing Chinese and Indian starters. I think I might take Peter Mandelson’s job, as I fit the two criteria: 1) I’m gay and 2) have a full head of hair.

Anyway I digress, the night was good fun, Julie seemed to enjoy herself, as did Nana D who repeated the lines "I don't suppose I'll be here next year" and 'I don't like Indian, and I only like Chinese starters", like a buddhist chant all night. In other news from the evening, Josh and Georgia have chicken pox, which meant Josh pulled up his shirt at every available opportunity to show his scars. He needed less encouragement than his uncle at a nightclub to remove his shirt.

Sunday was spent sunning ourselves and picnicing at Hampstead Heath Ponds with friends, which involved the usual swim and then constant monitoring of health for the next 24 hours to ensure the bracken water didn't bring on some bizarre stomach bug.

I still have the scars from Wednesday night, where I stupidly challenged a 25(?)-y-o to a bungy run at Paul's work. It involved running down an inflatable lane and attaching velcro pads at the end of the lane. You are then pulled back down the lane by the cord, removing most of your skin in the process. I suppose it was cheaper than dermabrasion. Next time I'll pick someone older and my own size.

Saturday night we went down to the new Bar Code at Vauxhall with Stuie and Lee. It was full of an 'up for it' pre-clubbing crowd, and the bar itself was unusual in the fact that money has been spent on it. And the aircon on the dancefloor works! Result. We ran into a few people we know down there too, so had good night, although the place was packed and that meant long waits for drinks. It's open until 3am (which is exciting in itself, as since licensing laws were relaxed last year, the City of Westminster hasn't granted many late licences in Soho), so there's now somewhere decent to go if you want a lateish night out, but don't want to go clubbing.