So, apparently there’s a bad smell around London, because everyone seems to be leaving.
Dawson’s Creek has now gone back to the land of red vines and pop tarts. Neither of which she eats, which is just another blow.
Eton Boy left me on Wednesday to run away to gay Paris, after bounding off his “private jet” from Greece on Tuesday evening and stumbling into the pub to purchase the last over-priced bottle of wine and refusing to watch Legally Blonde for the last time in our purely platonic relationship (even though it is FECKING HILARIOUS), ready to rise and shine bright and early the next day and hop on the Eurostar to the land of crepes.
The Aussie is fecking off back to (you guessed it) Australia, for some kind of ridiculous dream career opportunity but frankly it means she’s not splitting a bottle of red with me on a Friday any more so I’m flatly refusing to congratulate her.
The Roman, veritable diva and constant source of hilarity and debauchery, has decided she fancies trying her chances stateside for a bit. Last week, we grabbed dinner (and a LOT of wine) and she flustered into the restaurant, throwing her belongings at the doorman (it was not that kind of restaurant) declaring; ‘Sorry I’m late, I just had one hell of an argument with the guy I’ve been shagging. Apparently, I forgot to tell him.’
‘Tell him what?’ Bemused and amused Ritzi asks, ignoring the sea of indignant faces surrounding her.
‘Oh, that I’m leaving. The country. Possibly forever.’
Dramatic pause. The Roman pours an insane amount of Pinot.
‘Ah well! He’s dumped me now, so problem solved. So, tell me Ritzi, what’s going on with you?’
I kid you not.
And now to top it off, Riff Raff has done what he has been threatening to do for the past three years, and actually decided he is moving his ass to Chicago to basically become a character in ER. And he’s taking my Illegitimate Godson and his mental wife with him. Riff Raff is some kind of super surgeon, granted, and the Windy City’s wounded is lucky to have him, but I have warned him to watch out for falling helicopters because frankly, bald headed surgeons with midlife crisis Jaguars do not have a very good survival rate there.
Of course, Maxie G has already left, and is living this mad cap pregnant life where she’s going to have a baby in France and call him Croissant, and live happily ever after with her dutch love…
Well, I’m just going to carry on working lots. Drinking lots. Forgetting to mail manuscripts. That sort of thing.
I might claw my way out of London debt and go on an adventure. As soon as I run out of eligible bachelors. Oh, wait…
Until next time (if you’re lucky)