We left our heroines hanging by a silk stocking.
How rude!
But honestly the details are a bit too sordid.
March 31st. I call Hetty's "car" dealer. You know what I'm talking about and he says in a Brixton accent "Stop getting high on your own supply. Hetty has cut off your powder fund. I got more serious clients to deal wiv. But the lolly jar is shut. Don't call me again."
I was never the druggy type but all those years scraping hummus off tiny corduroy pinafores wore me down and I needed my Bryan Jones and Anita moment. My God did I have it.
They found me on the floor of The White Cube Gallery where the Channel 4 TV crew thought I was a performance artist that stayed the night on purpose. It was 9am and I was still wearing a feather boa and the Stella yoga outfit that I thought was cool for evening, but looked a great deal like an infant romper. In pale eggplant.
I had gone to the opening thinking I would meet Jarvis Cocker and he would understand me immediately. Hence the norm-core luxe yoga statement. Nothing remotely adventurous happened. A curator with a mean mouth found me in a foetal position sucking on a catalogue and singing like Bjork.
I came home in an ambulance feeling like a bruised vegetable.
It just goes to show....
You can only drink so much Pommery, before hitting the harder stuff.
Packing for rehab was actually the poshest thing ever! Hetty lent me her favourite ice blue N.Peal cashmere twinset that she only wears to The Priory and a new pair of Emma Hope velvet sneakers. So comforting.
And in there I actually met a guy who looked just like Jarvis except he was a Portuguese film director. He was sad that I had to leave.
But there are the children....school starts in a week and so does life. Hetty and I are still close. She quite likes having me on the other side of the globe, far far away from her shoe collection.