Confessional

As you, dear readers, will have worked out some time ago, consistency is not my strong point. After vowing no to dress replacement shopping, I promptly hopped onto the internets looking for a new frock. Fortunately it seems that Ebay may be able to furnish me with something that both covers my underwear and my dignity for the grand sum of twenty quid. (Whilst wistfully thinking of Lanvin & of Net a Porter.)

Equally, even tho I am supposed to be suffering through the Lenten Fast, I used my 48hrs of gastric flu as an excuse to head straight to the Diner on 9th this evening with Tales Near the Runway to plough through a burger, fries and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. I don't suppose that fact that it was a Garden burger helps? And that I drank water? No, I guess not.

I suppose I should also confess that only twenty minutes earlier on the elegant grey velvet sofas of the Soho House drawing room, TNTR, fresh off a Heathrow flight, whipped out a dozen contraband M&S Hot Cross buns from her handbag and palmed them into my bag.

(Believe it or not, this is better going for the Lenten Fast than last year, when she FEDEXED me two dozen of them from London via San Francisco.)