Celebrity Syndrome

Walking down Queensgate last night in South Kensington, I hear

"SASSY!!"

It's Alyssa, wielding a wine bottle, we cheers. I meet 2 people who already know me. This keeps happening. Monica says I have a fan club. I say thanks, but please don't stroke my ego.

There was a queue last night @ Notting Hill (?!?!) because some big shot band was there. Luckily Sarah spotted Dominic and we jumped the queue.

The band finishes. Everyone inside is so skinny. Highbrow crowd. I keep expecting to see Kate Moss. Meet a director named Raoul who's making a gay zombie movie called Mr. Right. He throws me over his back and somehow I land on my feet.

Dancing on couches with my 60s soul sister who looks French, but isn't.

Lights go up and we're dancing on stage. Get a lollipop from a baby. Keep saying thanks to compliments. Too many. Top form.

Rolled everyone cigs after they finish cleaning the bar. There's a girl with holes in her sweater. It's awkward.

Then I read everyone's palms and people actually believed that shite. The bartenders were sticking their palms in my face, lining up. Turkish people. Jules and Dre, Dr. Dre.

"I'm going home." This keeps happening. We're all sitting around the table talking about fortunes and street names and pearls and England. All the boys have cool shirts. Sometimes I'm standing on a bench, always laughing.

Then it's 5 and I'm trying feebly to unlock a door so Levi lets me out. Dumb smile, thanks, and I throw myself onto a bus.

Wake up at 12:34!!! For my 1pm class and stumble in on time. My eyes are so red. I think I'm going to a party tomorrow but now I need a nap.