busker

Way down yonder

Sub-arctic temperatures in the north-east and I send a friendly email to JV trusting that she is cuddling up warm and not having to smile wanly at too many bad jokes about vodka never freezing. The divine J used to be my supervisor and is now a PR honchoise for Absolut. I would love to say I drove her to drink but alas she occupies that sacred part of my memories that brooks no fibbing.

Dammit, the thought of that lady breezing around a room of boozy New York Mandrins ... well, it brooks no thought, altho' going by the way she handled A's fond mockery and constant ruthless probing into her vie privée, she'll have it all under control.

She replies by return, agreeing that it's a leetle chilly but that she's hightailing outta town for a bacherlorette party in New Orleans. I reply with a request for more incriminating pics like her last knees-up and comment that it sounds like a cheap date - exactly the sort of event that'll have all the raffish smoothies sending over drinks and lewd suggestions all night long.