Last night I went to a charidee screening of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid at an outdoor cinema set up in the grounds of Fulham Palace. It was mighty refined and I had a great time. What was weird and slightly painful is the undeniable evidence that the public school network is alive and well, especially in South-West London; even with 300 people present, I couldn't seem to move far without making eye contact with someone I hadn't seen for almost a decade. It was a braying mass of Prince Charles accents and horsey faces, and of course, try as I might to stand out and be irreverent and 'kooky' in my pink coat and faux-tiger-fur deerstalker, there's no denying that, to the untrained eye, me and posh go together like blisters and Compede. Growl.
I bumped into Ben, who I haven't seen since university, and we had a catch up on the lawn. And, like my friend Bee who I saw at Olly's wedding party on Saturday, it seemed that I didn't really need to do much catching up, as he seems to know most of my news from occasionally reading my blog. It was quite odd. Then this morning I got an email from a recent ex, who said he is also an intermittent follower. Note to self: must stop writing quite so much in the 'Jane = idiot' vein and stick to 'Jane = excellent and impressive' style posts from now on. Will do that after I tell you that the likely highlight of last night (for others) was me running back from the WC, in the dark, towards the cinema screen, deerstalker flapping, and tripping over an agonisingly designed, cruelly positioned, racing green, wrought-iron-framed chair which was lying ON ITS SIDE on the lawn and was therefore invisible to the naked eye. Grace I am not.
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