This is a bit overdue and my memory is hazed by booze and other things, but I will try and recall quite a bit.
On the something of October 2015, Cecile Winckler graced us of her presence in London city for the party of her magazine.
This is already a big event as Cecile NEVER comes to London, and of course, that gets me a tad animated.
She was having the party first with an exhibition at L.A.M.B Gallery, runned by the lovely and charming Lucinda Bellm.
I, as always , arrived late after having dinner around the corner at Bellamy’s with some friends, missed most of it , but the after-party was at Black Dice, down from Momo’s in Soho.
I, 100 percent, didn’t miss that.
I think I probably drank about 25 skinny bitches (Vodka, soda and fresh lime, although Cecile probably had a different skinny bitch… LOL) , spent all my monthly allowance pretending to be some sort of Russian Oligarch and buying drinks for everyone, then went back to Cecile’s with her little sis Marie.
And of course, they both don’t know the code for the alarm of their house…
I mean I don’t know mine either, but there doesn’t lie the point of the story.
After trying to guess the code (as if after multiple shots and other substances, we’d be some sort of Apple Genius and guess the bloody code).
Suddenly another drama strikes, Silvie (cecile’s mom) who was there for Frieze, wakes up.
That is one thing you don’t want to do in your young life, and that is to wake Cecile’s mum up because you are drunk and don’t know the code for the alarm of your own house.
After about 15 minutes, and the whole street coming out in their pyjamas (those alarms are SERIOUSLY loud), we sorted it out and went upstairs to smoke another 20 malborough lights to then go to bed.
There is no moral to this story, except maybe don’t drink too much and try and remember the code of your house, especially if your mum is in town.
Thank you again to Unemployed for keeping it real.