In the chaos leading up to the chaos that was my birthday weekend (obviously to be followed by my birthday week/month, et cetera, ad infinitum), I forgot to notify you via blog that it was my birthday.  Don’t worry, in the absence of my bloggery, the shopping centres are still open, so don’t be shy, hit up the mall, tart up your shit and join me in vanquishing brain cells and whatnot forever (For ever-ever? For EVER-ever).

Friday (also known as ‘Birthday Eve’) did damage to the ever-delightful Kettners, one of my favorite haunts for being haunted by Oscar Wilde while consuming far-too-much-i-mean-not-enough-Champagne, my growing entourage noisily drawing up additional tables to seat latecomers and other well-wishing looky-lous.  I was spoiled not-quite-rotten, but spoiled nonetheless, and that’s what’s important.  There’s adequate time for rotting later, right, Oscar? Oscar Wilde floats mincingly past and nods his approval. (Can a ghost mince? Subject for  another blog, she says, clearly, into her dictaphone. Fuck I wish I was exciting enough to merit the carrying of a dictaphone and saying “memo to self: important things. Cue end of Digression One.”)

Saturday was insane and therefore encouraged me to dress appropriately.  I feel as though if one cannot wear whatever one chooses to one’s own fête, then life is simply not worth living, anyhow.  My ensemble of choice consisted of wet look leggings, an exoskeletal style BCBG cincher, some insanely dominatrixey black leather ankle-boots/Diamanté dog collar and a lavender suede motorcycle jacket over a bra-cum-top.  No, that was not a double entendre, but take it there, if you must, while Julie Andrews and I make this face:

Anyhow, hit Dorsia, which GQ.com instructed the masculinely inept across the globe would allow them to embrace their inner Patrick Bateman’s by finally managing to get that Sea Urchin ceviche in South Kensington.  Unfortunately for the Sea Urchin, we hit it up about 11, though I’m sure it clamoured all day/night long for my munching on it. So Sowwy Ceviche!  

As I am L’officiel Imported American Psycho, of course death-defying destruction of all things liquor-related commenced well and truly in advance of our arrival, and we further annihilated both Grey Goose bottles and glassware as well as alienating members of the Made In Chelsea pretty committee once again (because I always fail to recognize their ‘celebrityness’ and never fail to be adequately inappropriate, insulting and generally good fun), this time asking Spencer Matthews if he  planned on running down any Snappy Snaps, later. For fun.  To be fair, dude looks like George Michael, which it a total compliment anyway, so don’t get all nah nah nah nah about it. Just ask him if he’s got faith-ah-faith-ah-faith in some sort of investment thing, because I think he’s supposed to either be a broker or play one on TV.  I don’t actually have a TV so this excuses me from all but what underlings indicate are “need to know” current affairs issues, such as the cat who says “No, no, no, no, no” and the French Bulldog who cannot turn over, gets lazy, gives up, and then tries some more. That shit is GOLD.

Stumbled around South Kensington and Fulham like detectives with every clue (or Clouseau) leading to the arrest of all cardiacs, whether incited by Class A drug or level of Camembert melted on necessary 4AM Baguette party.  Actually, I was very respectable this year and only required Valium to get through a bunch of estate agents waking me up at 9 AM on Birthday-Day to traipse overeager mothers-and-babies through my gorgeous house, which was incredibly off-putting, as far as birthday treats go.  And, I might add, Valium is only Class C, anyway, duhhhh, and I’m sure we’d all agree it makes this Valium-of-the-Dollster a MUCH NICER DOLL TO BE AROUND THAT EARLY IN THE BEFORE-NOON-O’CLOCK.  Other than that, much of the rest of life was spent in a delectable haze of truffles and Champagne. (Literally, I think I only consumed chocolate and champagne – with the exception of some Goat’s Cheese and a whole lot of vodka – for 48 hours straight. = The answer to “How Do You Always Look So Fresh-Faced!?”)

Oh, and this happened:

Twix wearing birthday candles following a Birthday Valium Nap, which if it isn’t already “a thing”, needs to be “a thing”. I’m going to incorporate it into my daily routine.

I’ll let you know how it pans out.



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