six inch stiletto

Here is number 4 of Oprah’s favourite things - Australia’s Uptown Boot.

The little ® after Ugg hurts, really.

1. My boyfriend cleaned up the whole flat before I got home.
Vacuumed, not just tidied. You sincerely rock my world

2. The M&S white stilton with cranberries I am currently eating. Um, yum.
It’s like cream cheese, but not.

Last week we visited Spearmint Rhino in Tottenham Court Road. We are not unfamiliar with strip clubs, having been to many in Brisbane, but this was something of a new experience. For starters, none of the girls looked like they were on speed - in fact, they all appeared outstandingly healthy. Secondly, the girl to punter ratio was about 7:1 - unheard of in any of the Brisbane clubs we patronised (barring the coldest nights, of course).

All of the stories were the same, though (student. single mother. traveller.), except for maybe the adopted gap-year-girlie, originally born in Nepal, whose parents both work for the WHO, and who actually lives in Geneva when she’s not STRIPPING in LONDON…

…sigh.

Because stripping is the new! fun! thing! for the girls who find their looks aren’t quite enough to get them captioned in Tatler as an exotic beauty. She was gorgeous though, I have to admit. I sincerely hope some dimwitted public school boy finds her too sexy to resist.

Finally, we spent almost £260 for the three of us, on a school night, with only two three-minute lap dances. Ouch. I think the drinks were triples - they may have started off as doubles but my dire state after the event can only be attributed to really strong drinks. Almost £30 a round attests to the evilness.

We’re probably off to Stringfellows next, but I think we need time to save up first.

A huge bouquet to the kind stranger who handed in my purse to the Marriott on Park Lane; money, cards and all. You saved me a lot of hassle (Australian cards etc). Sincere thanks.

I’m usually a sucker for American celebreality shows (I mean, Run’s House - awww. What’s not to love?) but Breaking Bonaduce is almost too sad to watch. The cute little red-haired kid is now a bi-polar, alcoholic, sex addict; with two kids to push into the showbiz world he blames for his ruin. The show is all too intimate and, so far, the ultimate in train-wreck TV.

Bobby and Whitney, step aside. You have been usurped. (Note to self: alliterative B titles seem to be the thing for crazycruel reality TV. Store for future reference.)