The mid-morning hours of Saturday saw me taking a three-and-a-half-year old to ballet, and eating a traditional English cholesterol-laden, delicious-beyond-all-understanding breakfast with young suburban mothers and fathers while their daughters leapt around in tutus.
The wee morning hours of Sunday saw me in the suburbs again, only this time, I was in asymetrical lines of black, with a fag held just so, as I sipped champagne and flirted shamelessly with gorgeous-beyond-all-understanding gay men who vowed to marry me in the morning.
I love London. I freaking love London.
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