Compared to Aberdeen, London is hot. It's so hot that I can't sleep at nite with the covers off and the windows open. It's hot on the Underground and even in the air-conditioned offices at Real. In fact even the MILFs are hotter in London. I got my first taste of the sophisticated, 30-something Londonette when I was sent on an errand to Selfridge's. And the taste was of oyster - like tuna but classier. When I was asked to purchase a tin of sardines for use in a foto-shoot, I thought that Real must be planning a feature on lesbian fantasies. Sadly, the only oil it related to was of the Omega-3, rather than the KY, variety. Nevertheless, I set off keenly on my mission to find the most photogenic sardines that money could buy. Being the naive tourist that I am, I asked for directions when I got to Bond Street, unaware that the shop occupied a space bigger than Vanessa Feltz at an eat-all-you-can buffet.
You can always tell how posh an establishment is by the height of the entrance. Selfridge's doors went from the very top right down to the bottom. I approached cautiously, feeling slightly scruffy in my safety-pinned trousers and 'Tell your mom I said hi' t-shirt. Only last week I had been refused entry to an Aberdeen niteclub for comitting the crime of having hair that was too spiky. No-one was watching, however, as I slunk inside and made my way past the gleaming white towers of Calvin Klein, L 'Oreal and Max Factor. Upon turning to the left, I discovered that I was in the Cigar Room, an entire area dedicated to the post-coital pleasure of chewing on a Cuban special after having smoked someone else's wife.
To a guy who has spent the last three years living in Aberdeen, walking through the Food Hall in Selfridge's elicits a look of amazement similar to that of a hillbilly who has just discovered that it is possible to have sex with other people's sisters as well. You don't get a fish counter in Selfridge's. No, you get an oyster counter and a canapes counter and bottles of pink champagne. You also get rich mums. Very rich mums. Before I could admire the scenery, however, I had to locate my sardines. Sardines don't strike me as being a very classy food, but if Selfridge's stocked them, you could bet they'd be special. And they were. At least I think they were; I never actually tried these fishy delights, but at £5.99, they'd better have been pretty fucking special. You can buy a blowjob for that (though not in Selfridge's) and still have change for some meatpaste. Realising that I may never again have the pleasure of spending six quid on a tin of sardines, I decided to celebrate by eating lunch in the cafe. My sandwich was pleasant, but not £4.65 pleasant. It wasn't until the bill arrived that the exorbitant price became justified; my receipt was handed to me on a silver tray! Suddenly, I felt excited, and I wasn't sure if it was because of my new lifestyle or the posh mum who was sitting next to me. Either way, I felt guilty. I sneaked a Selfridge's sugar sachet into my already bulging pocket and made my escape. I think I could really get into this decadence thing; lunch at the Savoy, cocktails with a CEO's bored wife and then cocaine sex in a Mayfair penthouse. All I need now is to develop a taste for seafood. (Rich people eat a lot of sushi, you see.)
Tomorrow: Eyes Far Apart - the story of the supermodels I took home.