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Thursday 20 November 2008

Diary

Venetia Thompson contends with a broken Blackberry, teeth-whitening kits and cyclists

This week saw my first teeth-whitening effort, in an attempt to combat the effects of my espresso habit, which was going well until I reached for the bleach after one too many drinks. The focus required to apply the bleach ‘sparingly’ to the transparent retainer using the syringe was a little too much for me to handle. Twelve hours later I emerged from a deep sleep to find that I had rendered myself incapable of eating or drinking anything that wasn’t room temperature for a few days; a shame at the start of frappuccino season.

I can’t ride a bicycle and I have no desire or need to learn. They scare me; mainly because I never seem to hear or see them until they are on top of me, and recently they have been haunting me more than usual. On Tuesday I narrowly avoided death by cyclist when one jumped a red light and knocked me flying into the path of a Range Rover. Then, at dinner, my pro-bicycling companion — dare I say ‘date’ — embarked upon a ten-minute rant attempting to convince me of the error of my bike-hating ways, culminating in an offer to teach me. He then ordered his fillet steak ‘medium. No actually make that medium-well. Venetia, rare meat is so bad for you.’ This was followed by a sorbet, and then a latte. He helpfully expressed concern that my double espresso might keep me up all night. These pedal-pushing, medium-well-done, milk-swilling men seem to be everywhere these days. I blame the congestion charge.

Thursday began with a sartorial dilemma, passed through a friend’s birthday in Soho where Martin Sherman was guest of honour, and ended with an ill-fated trip to E5. My friend David had been wanting to wear his Vivienne Westwood T-shirt for a long time, but the graphic image of two naked cowboys on the front had so far required that he proceed with caution. The birthday party provided the perfect opportunity, and the T-shirt was met with unanimous approval. I visited my friend’s new flat in Clapton, having dropped David and his cowboys safely home. I think it will be a while before Clapton becomes the new Hackney, but the estate that I pottered through had many positive signs; an abundance of brand new BMWs and Audis, well maintained flower beds, and no visible gangs of youths. However, what these car owners fail to realise is that nothing lets an estate down more than stepping out of one’s brand new Lexus, into a lift with an unmistakable hint of urine, and a flat smaller and cheaper than your car. But, as I realised while schlepping through Aldgate the following morning in nothing but leggings and a vest trying to find a Tube station (the A to Z wouldn’t fit inside my clutch and I was damned if I was consulting that fiend of a BlackBerry) — as long as you are spending more time cruising around than you are at home, you’re on to a winner. In fact why bother with the estate at all; live in the Lexus.

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