Camille’s party location was a strange combination of being a fairly rundown joint in the middle of a gritty street in Shoreditch, abandoned sofas littering the stairs, cracked and peeling paint everywhere, exposed wiring, dim light-bulbs (you get the idea) and yet perversely, had a doorman with a guest-list at the entrance and this huge studio apartment on the 4th floor.
There were more contradictions, half the guests seemed to be art students the other half bankers. There was a strict divide of course between both camps. Most art students hate people with money. You would imagine we’d be smart enough to hook up with someone with a little dosh, but no, we find equally poverty-stricken, moronically idealistic DJ’s, musicians, painters, writers, poets, drunks and vagabonds in general.
Fernanda hates men in suits, but I think she has issues. I’m personally looking for a nice rich sugar daddy. Bankers, accountants and investors welcome.
Still, I’m drawn to writers and designers. We’re a stupid lot, us artists.
I felt hugely awkward walking into this party (which for a change I’d been invited to). I don’t know why. I knew a good section of people but there was all the general awkwardness of standing around, attempting to make conversation and basically just waiting for people to get hammered.
Which of course, they did.
I reconsidered wearing my slutty top and wore one showing no cleavage but apparently was slutty enough anyway (sigh) and bright pink shoes, that’s very important, pink shoes. I bought a bottle of wine and didn’t bother getting a glass but swigged it straight from the bottle like an ol’ pro. L. swigged away at a quart of Jack.
So all in all, the gossip I managed to scrape together from this party was this:
– A. tells me he considers the 3 most fanciable girls in class to be Fernanda, Camille and L. in no particular order. Which surprised me since A’s work is practically verging on BNP propaganda and all three of them are foreigners.
– U. starts hitting on every female within a 2 feet radius. L. in her drunken way forbids me to dance or kiss him and I secretly agree but I dance anyway.
– L’s friend follows her around desperately trying to flirt. She calls him a dick. He requests me to inform the Bombay public he wants to organize some short film showings there. I kept his card but I don’t care enough to promote him.
– Fernanda and L. both pee on the roof (not simultaneously). Ed gives me a small lecture on being house broken and potty trained.
– I spill Amalia’s drink and she yells at me (which was very scary, especially since for about 5 minutes I had no idea what the hell she was talking about). I try to placate her by offering up my measly wine. She rejects my olive branch and no doubt swears at me under her breath in greek as she leaves the roof to scavenge up better booze.
– L. was so liquored up I couldn’t get a postcode out of her and needed 2 people to help her into the cab. So she ended up on my spare bed.
“Go make me some tea”
she says, and I scamper off dutifully only to come back and find her passed out under the blankets.