My septum has seen better days, I’ll tell you that much for fucking free

Flared bandage dress – Herve Leger

Steel band choker – Coco-de-mer.com

Patent Stilettos – Christian Louboutin

Black bob wig – Camden Market

Slightly too much foundation – Mac

Barren wastelands for ovum – Model’s own

I did 5 more laps of the hotel room before caving and wedging an entire packet of nicotine gum between my cheeks. I was utterly fucking nauseous with nerves. Fortunately for my dress’s sake, teenage bulimia had left me with the gag reflex of a 60 yr old Battersea prostitute.

In approximately 7 minutes time I would be en route to a private party in Chelsea hosted by my friend Alex -a rather well known British male model I met when I was 15. Who happened to have gifted me multiple orgasms.

Flora, I honestly don’t know why you’re so bloody worried, getting wasted and shagging someone happens all the time. Hell, the poor girl I woke up with last Sunday did me the pleasure of pointing out my nose looks ‘ever so slightly like a bell end.’ The gorgeous wench. Needless to say, someone didn’t get her toast soldiers buttered both sides that morning. Besides babe, you could probably seduce a fucking used condom with your manner, take it as a compliment. Now look, party starts at 11, next Friday, dress theme is Sex, Drugs and Rocks Through Your Window -you still got the address written down, yeah? Call if you’ve got any problems finding venue, A xx

Yes, well how about you wake up at 6.45am to a distinctly unresponsive penis grinding against your left thigh. I looked out of the hotel window down onto the aseptic hipbones and bad sex bait shuffling past Kensington Gardens on the street below. There was something rather homely about the groggy taxi horns and faint sexual leers the capital perspirated in the evening. And not a bottom in a 500ft radius.

My blackberry went off. Taxi. I leapt for my clutch, checked cash, my long suffering mirror and swifly threw back my (approx.) 19th vodka and orange, before a cymbal crashing performance of how to baste your own minimal cleavage in alcohol. Well done, fucko. Fortune wanks up my tweed nightdress and hits me in the eye once more. 

*    *    *

‘This is a travesty,’ Alex declared, peeling my fingers from my empty glass before flamboyantly leaning over the bar and helping himself to an opened bottle of something expensive.  ‘Now, let’s think.. surely there’s one you ain’t heard of..hmm, ‘ow about the time I spiked the Bollinger Rosé with GHB so that ballbag from Razorlight looked even more shitted than usual when he went to pick up his NME award?’

The first thing I was reminded of upon arrival inside the venue was something between a cartoon warning children on the dangers of smoking and the BP oil spill. Models in silk and pvc bondage outfits twisted around guests, offering cocktails before slipping off between great cascading black drapes. Iggy Azalea – Pu$$y was thumping from somewhere behind the bar.

‘Yes ..mother of..yes, darling, because you made me flipping record it, I was there!’ I did a double take as a woman in black latex leggings and leather nipple tassells, holding a board of champagne wove around us. Please don’t let me die here. The plan was I was going to pop it drinking moet and smoking Richmonds to the sound of my neighbour finding dogshit smeared under his car door handle. Not this! We agreed! My soul for the Jimmy Choos! I threw back another drink -in my mind stemming the venereal diseases I’d be picking up simply via inhalation tonight.

Now, I don’t go wimp eyed and watery nosed when bad things happen to me but I confess, as I sat on that toilet looking down at my vomit stamped Mcqueen clutch between my feet, fully aware that at some point before the year is over I will actually have to leave my current lavatorial safe house, and return to the great heave of plucked areolas and failing nipple tape, I did feel a little bit shit.

By the time I returned to the main venue lounge, the place was utterly heaving. I spotted Alex standing on the bar with his hand in his crotch, brandishing a cigar from his fly.

‘Is he retarded?’ A young beige haired woman uttered next to me.

‘Sadly not retarded, no. Well. Not exactly.’

‘Then what?’ I gave her a solemn glance. I was versed enough in the fine art of botoxed facial-deciphering to recognise she was, with applaudable effort, ruthlessly grinning.

‘He’s incredibly rich.’

*   *   *

So that was an interesting start to the weekend. But I had a life to get on with. And not even that party would prepare me for the horror in the week to follow.

What’s the point in crying over European sizing if no-ones there to see you do it?

‘Afternoon motherfucker, lunch?’

Martha was going through one of her motherfucker phases, again.

‘Sorry sweetie, i’ve got an appointment with Zoe at 1pm -rather starting to resemble Grandmother’s beloved rhododendron bush, 3 weeks after she passed, god rest her soul. How about this evening, then we can not eat and talk at the same time.’

‘Okay lovely, well, pick you up at 7?’

‘Okay sweetie, love you.’

‘Love you, mwah.’

‘Mwah.’

‘Bye-eeeeee’

‘Buh-bye, sweetie.’

‘Bye, love-ooo’

For gods sake, hang up you selfish bitch

‘Yep, okay, Love-oooo..too-oo’

‘Bye baaaaabe.’

FUCK OFF NOW PLEASE, MARTHA

‘Love you, bye, mw-‘

Then just as I went to stuff my phone back in my bag, three things happened at once. Upon hearing that voice on the otherside of the changing room curtain, I shot upright with such determination that the Roland Mouret Dress I had wedged under my armpits let out a tiny fabric scream and next, like some sort of grotesque slow-motion replay of my own death, I observed as my hands hot-potato-ed my Blackberry to a backing track of the entire contents of my Birkin colliding mid-flight. Fortunately for myself, maths was always strong point during highschool, meaning I could mentally calculate my prison sentence for the contents of said bag in really only the time it took to witness my phone gracelessly smack the marble floor and slide off under the curtain.

Now, in many ways, cocaine is a lot like love; over-rated, expensive as fuck and ruins your life. And as I knelt there, 3 ft away from a man I had dated 4 years ago, I spent 3 of the most mobile minutes i’ve had in my entire 18 years of an otherwise perspiration-free life. Upon fishing out my last arrestable offence from a somewhat underemployed bra cup, I took a moment to reflect on the standard encountering-an-ex-boyfriend-etiquette. Shouldn’t I be turning up in a Bentley whilst he sucks off a tramp behind the co-op? 18 years and still I do not have sufficient bone development. I’m so mad at my father.

I stood up and caught myself in the mirror. Oh dear, one never does never look as one hoped. And then I remember, with a gutteral horror more prominent than that time I watched Martha swallow an entire stuffed bagel, the dress. A tiny hairline tear, £1095 worth of hairline tearing. I’d been seduced, passionately fucked and abandoned. Oh well, maybe this could be my court room dress. I had a fleeting image of spending the afternoon uploading a new twitter avatar of a courtroom sketch of the exact moment i’m sentenced to 600 years.

Poor old Martha, I thought. She’ll never see that meal tonight. Todays dinner special: slightly more water than lunch. Well, she had been carrying a little more roundness to her ears, I suppose. With that thought I pulled off the dress, re-dressed and tentively threw open the curtain. The changing room assistant was standing directly infront of me. Cold. Unreadable. A bit dry on the forehead. This is it, I thought, it’s over. Infact, asides from that time I was made to walk home in James Donnellan’s trainers at 5am, I’ve really had a very good life up untill now indeed. She leant for something behind her. FUCK IT, DENY EVERYTHING, FLO, YOU’RE TOO YOUNG, DENY DENY DENY. Was she going to beat me? With the kind of internal turmoil that comes with that dry complexion, I wouldn’t put it past her. It’s okay sweetie, I feel your pain, let’s just make this quick. Benefit do a great concealer anyway. And then just as I thought she was about to read out my rights, she pulled out my pitiful, guilt saturated Blackberry from a back pocket.

It was at that exact moment I made a silent promise to myself to start bulk investing in incontinence knickers within the next 18 months and perhaps some sort of hilarious card for my account manager. One of those ironic ones, you know, maybe even point her in the way of developing a drinking problem to ease the stress. Wine department, floor 4.

Whatever hits the fan may not be distributed evenly

I sat still behind the driving wheel for a few moments. Why was I still here? You’re definitely going in, you fuck. And ease up on the rice cakes, there’s only so much tit overhang one push-up bra can tolerate. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror. Was this what people do when they’re on the brink of a nervous breakdown? The afternoon earlier I had been subjected to two UNUTTERABLE hours sat in Zara changing rooms. I was standing on the brittle precipice. I was standing and I was ready to jump. Not for the first time that day, I slapped my own face.

* * *

6am: Standing there in the bathroom, assuming what can best be described as the position one might adopt whilst pending an impromptu cavity search, I thought to myself, This Is It, this is as happy as I’m ever destined to be: entombed in Veet with fag ash slowly piling down my right breast.

I’d made a decision. And positioned there, vertically spread-eagled, absorbing the window view of the street below, I was increasingly discovering that the warmth felt upon watching my neighbour’s lavender being pissed on by the local tramp was my only worthy companion. In a few hours time I was going to finish it with the ex. Once i’ve had a 2pm hose up my bottom.

* * *

I walked up to the door and pushed the wall buzzer. After lingering for a moment, wondering if maybe he hadn’t heard, I went to turn on my heel before –ugh.

‘-Flo? Flo, hey, hi, thought you’d decided to bale on -come up.’

Shiiit.

Yeah, so there’s this work thing Friday evening and I thought maybe you’d accompany me -Come on, tossers and tailoring, your favourite,’ he said, nodding to a circular gift box on the coffee table. Lanvin. I really hate this man.

‘Look, [Name Removed], this ..can’t..’

‘-You want something to drink, babe,’ he said, with entire conventional social disregard for a reply as he eased out the cork of a bottle of something. Of course, he didn’t do questions. Well, onwards, upwards and inwards? and before I knew it, we had transitioned from bitter small talk to full on hate-fuck.

‘Your bottom really has proved itself to be crackingly excellent tonight.’

Why is not being an increasingly innovative wanker so effing hard for this man? Why did I not come prepared with a miraculous menstrual flow? Is there any way I could prove us to be genetically related?

‘Also, would you like a lift to work next week?’ I suppose in this economy it would be considered resourceful for saving on my next taxi bill by drinking copious amounts of semen, maybe?

All things considered, besides the entire failure to commit to the decision I’d purposely left the house to implement, the fact I should probably consult a priest over the things i’ve done in the last few hours and the overall collapse of my already prior-abrased morals, that went rather well. Big pat on your own back, Flo. Well done.

Vultures chewing on your arms hurt alot less when they’re paying you thousands of dollars.

‘Okay, the choice is this, you either have to shag any ex dated before ’09 or live the rest of your life forever alone and equally shagless,’ Livia said, fingering through Grazia’s Street Style. ‘I for one: shagless.’

We were currently sat in a coffee shop following the viewing of several apartments. Mere hours ago i’d been made to sit through Joni Mitchell on loop, the entire journey from Alton to Winchester. I want new friends. Get me a new friends. I never want to see these pieces of shit ever again.

‘Can I be, like, shagged from behind?’ Martha enquired. ‘Are they stuck in ’09 wardrobes aswell? How many calories are in licking a stamp?’

‘We’re talking shags here, not marriage. No-one mentioned having to engage in any form of direct eye contact, come on Flo. Marths. How about a live animal or a dead body?’

‘- Uhm, like, I suppose I could, uhm, Ben Hawthorne, no, like, maybe? -what? Oh, why won’t you just FUCK OFF AND LEAVE US ALONE?’ Martha exclaimed, glaring wild-eyed at an apple flapjack.

‘I know one. Ryan Phillippe circa Cruel Intentions or Desmond Harrington circa The Hole. Sugar daddy or couger!’

‘Livs, I think that should be your last Frap, darling. Anyway- ‘

‘But think of the rewards!’

And then, of course, when everything is verging on vaguely tolerable, it all falls to pieces around you. One minute you’re Oliver Reed, wildly beating down heat seeking missiles in slingbacks in the Selfridges beauty department and binge spending until you euphorically piss yourself.  The next, it makes the biggest heap of shit you ever saw in your life. My phone went off. It was The Ex.

‘I know you’re busy tonight. But you’d rather be busy with me. Meet me at the square at 8. Wear a nice dress.’

My immediate response to this was how dare a fellow victim of their own ego speak to me like that.  He was always a twat. I suppose you have to be a bit of a wanker to be that cool. Yes, he was a wanker and everyone knew it. My secondary response was: What. What? We’re dating? I took a long breath. You choose now to tell me, now, now to tell me, now, after the day i’ve had? You fucking want to tell me about it now? I thought we were just casually hate fucking each other. Mutually resentful with benefits. I put down my phone. I picked it up again. Flo, are you really going to take the only person in your life that’s there purely for your own benefit and turn him into a something with thoughts and feelings? Why? Did Reese Witherspoon not make it clear enough? You don’t date your fuck buddy.

‘Ferragamo’s hound’s-tooth sole stilettos or a anatomically acceptable vagi-‘

Now, i’m not quite sure what level of tolerance I’m supposed to be operating at on a day to day basis but I very swiftly decided at this point that this will be the last friendship that’s not going to be supported by regular drug abuse.

A few hours later, we got back from shopping Winchester -that in itself being good evidence of life after death. I fell on to the sofa. Was I about to make a really stupid fucking decision? Would carrying on a life of snorting adjectives and fingering myself to repeats of countdown really be so awful? Was my destiny Laurent-Perrier Cuvée Rose, a fleeting sense of accomplishment and 500mg of Metronidazole taken orally twice daily for 14 days?

The trouble with the morning after is it’s dreadfully hard both violently wailing and holding your stomach in.

‘Oi. Oiii. OOOIII!’

What was it? A drunk? The landlord? The ghost of harem pants past? That patch of red wine under the yeti rug? Please don’t let it be the red wine.

I looked out of the window. It was 8pm, the street was serene asides a flickering lampost and a teenage drug exchange in the public gardens. I heaved open the window and leant out. Oh shit. I shouldn’t have done that, can we just pretend I didn’t do that? My ex was standing in the street. The yeti rug set me up, the bastard.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Make an excuse.’

I let him in. It was a while since I’d last seen him in person and it’s hard to play irreverent with a man with such astonishingly well groomed eyebrows. Put a time limit on it, Flo, then we know it won’t go on forever. So we know what’s going on. Yeah. After about 90 minutes longer on the topic of ‘that twat Ken from IT,’ than most conventionally functioning human beings might tolerate, the conversation turned, predictably, toward ‘us.’ For one very brief moment later on, I had to recollect whether I may’ve involuntarily declared ‘I’d rather die first,’ yet the following request for going on to a restaurant, regretfully, suggested otherwise.

Do I want no strings attached sex and dinner? No. Maybe. A bit. And eat it aswell? No, I don’t want it, alright? Fuck off! You’ve made it too hard.

Maybe if I did it.. I mean, what if that’s the problem? Poor boy, he must get so confused, he really wasn’t that much of a manipulating bastard piece of shit, was he? No, he’s just not very good with expressing his emotions. That’s the problem, I suppose. If I did shag him, maybe it would make everything okay again? If I made him feel secure like that? Sort of like charity work. Do my bit for the community.

I went to the hallway to take a moment of clarity. The faint chorus of Pete from nextdoor, weeping and masturbating into his ex-wife’s free with Cosmopolitan Freya North paperback was seeping through the walls, again. That was all the clarity I needed, thankyou Pete.

I suppose shagging things you hate is just the price you pay to avoid loneliness and 3am repeats of Made In Chelsea.

I should of liked the kind of life where one could go out without stuffing each bra cup with 20 Richmonds. Alas, it was not meant to be.

Few things asides a friend turning up to lunch in an Asos velvet turban, are quite so distastefully inconvenient as work colleague emotional drama. As a woman that resolves to limit facial mobility to an undisclosed single figure per annum, I prefer to wait until colleague has committed to voluntary full body sobbing before nominating Emma from Purchasing with a biro to attend to boyfran issues. And frankly, the consequences of consistent eyebrow movement is simply not a burden I’m willing to carry.

“No! I’m not, sniff, bloody, check mascara collateral, OKAY!”

To this day, I feel a fierce sense of warmth for women that have an utter disregard toward waiting for questions to be asked before answering them. After 40 minutes of violently plying a frosted cupcake from weeping Sara’s grasp and stemming her binge spending on Outnet.com, I finally managed to collate her boyfriend had been flirting with a Jack Wills assistant. Oh. OH. I looked at Emma. Can we just kill her, shoot her? Would that be crazy? First Martha wore that heinous plaid jacket in July, now this. I have to live this shit.

Following a lunch-break appointment with my arm crook masseuse, Dante, who agreed my work colleague sounded alot more fun when it was the coke problem, we decided together that maybe I could save suicide for another day -atleast until after the Net-A-Porter Xmas sales. (The nature of my early sexual encounters with him will be outlined in posts to follow)

All things considered, watching Coffee Girl being mauled by the office pug later that afternoon really wasn’t as uncomfortable to watch as i’d always thought it would be, so long as you keep her choice of shoes out of mind.

You find out who your real friends are when you set fire to their Mcqueen scarf collection as you can’t take any more of your ex bf’s shit.

 There are two people I consult when I’m in need of some critical in-depth advice: Zoe, my taiwanese bikini waxer and my cousin. Often it’s difficult to get a reply from Zoe -her English isn’t great and I think consistent pleading screams for mercy have rendered her a trifle deaf (there are no atheists in that beauty salon, let me tell you) but she certainly does a convincing sympathetic nodding routine. I told Zoe of my relationship dilemma and my current plight for a new Miu Miu bowler and whilst I’ve no doubt she was deeply moved, a part of me was still compelled, almost spiritually, to see my cousin.

Despite verging on paraplegic, I endeavored to get on the next train into Waterloo and waited, with my best impression of a woman that’s menstruated since S/S ’05, as a train pulled upto the platform. It was 6.15pm and the carriages were full of commuters and probably one too many circled vaginoplasty adverts in discarded copies of Tatler, for my taste. I don’t want to go to the ball anymore, I want to sit around in my pants. Nevertheless, the heroin of this story ushered her suffering upper thighs through every carriage until she reached the final one and what was presented before her was only what can be describe as a hell more sinister than another season of Topshop metallic peplum skirts. She turned around, but it was too late, the doors had slid shut, and she stood before the mercy of 40 morally bereft middleschoolers.

I looked down to see a little thing jabbing me in the leg with a biro. I think we can pretty much count THIS friendship over from now on.

 “Why are you doing this to me? Go away, please.”

After 17 minutes of consciensciously not letting my bag touch anything in a 20ft radius, I realised i’d lost all regulation of coffee consumption and I was seated with all the grace of an injured racehorse waiting to be shot in it’s startbox. Am I dead yet? I looked to my right and I was faced with a little girl gently showering her lap with carrot cake. Was this her own personal suicide mission? Her holy war? They’re certainly getting younger. Better out than in, I thought.

Upon arriving at Waterloo, I tearily fled onto the platform; a refuge from the buffet trolley carb carnage. I can only apologise to the women queuing outside the station toilets. I understand I left some of you in quite alot of pain and there was rather alot of blood.

During the race, do not remove your crash helmet

Oh, do fuck off.

This isn’t real life, is it?

Oh, do fuck off.

At some point between a Sherbet Holmes and a Tequila Mockingbird, I declared to Abigail that I was going to supplement my vapourless saddlebag of bones via means of fake tanning for the forthcoming night out. An astonishing amass of incriminating photos later, me and my right-hand woman fall back through the front door. Throwing off clothes gallantly, with my new found inebriated grace and poise, I think to myself why not apply some self tan now?

Yes, why not.

10 minutes pass and why am I not a latino goddess yet?

CUE 7.29AM:

I get up to apply usual beauty regime of scream, tone and moisturise and yet, fie, what a vision is here? Did I walk home bare foot last night or do they just really need aOH MY GOD. And all of a sudden I’m Alice falling down a burnt umber rabbit hole. A poodle is dancing to Salt n Pepper ‘Push It’ on tv behind me and am I having some sort of hysterical episode? No! Wishful thinking, you fuck! I’m a ticking time bomb of Dulux’s entire kitchen paint scale, except for my left breast which has apparently gone on holiday to Burkina Faso overnight.

And if that were not enough to comprehend whilst bitterly eyeing up my cat over this months Cosmopolitan guide to feng shui oral sex, i’m really resenting the new colour scheme of my wardrobe. There’s a time and place for camel and that’s not saturating into a silk halter dress since 5am.