"How can you be girly AND clumsy?" Matt asked me, staring at my legs with enough intensity to make me feel uncomfortable, were they not covered in scrapes and scratches and bruises. And were I not an attention whore.
"I fell down the stairs."
"Right. What were you drinking?"
He knows me so well. "Oh you know, pinot, battery acid, the usual."

"White wine then?"

-----------

The scrapes don't pass unnoticed, which is a shame at this time of year, where pressing social engagements (ie, saying goodbye to everyone before I fuck off to Abergavenny on Friday) mean frequent leg exposure, with the aid of beautiful strappy sandals and short dresses.
My iPod battery dead, I was forced to listen to those around me on the tube, rather than more exciting and less mediocre things, like Placebo. So much love for Placebo at the moment.
And I kissed Brian Molko once upon a time, too.
I swished my way into the carriage and ended up standing for the whole three stop trip, when I noticed a little murmuring- charming things like cat, tramp, allergies? and also, how?

They were making me feel common, and my patience- a pathetic excuse for a virtue at the best of times- snapped on hearing the word 'tart'.

I looked at her, with her last seasons Versace teamed with last years Marc Jacobs and smiled ("be rude in a charming and engaging fashion").
"Yeah, I look like I had it off in a bush, don't I?"

-silence-

I changed at the next stop, and had the same thing; rude, tactless stares and whispered remarks. Patience frayed, I turned back to the nearest whisperer just before we came to my final stop; "Yeah, ok, look. There was nowhere else to go so we had it off in a bush."

I hate being made to feel like a commoner, especially when it's unfounded. I'm perfectly good enough at making myself feel cheap, I don't need the help of strangers.

And on this occasion, I really had fallen down the stairs.