Monday 26 October 2009

Picture the scene - Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly Golightly glancing into the mirror

Picture the scene - Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly Golightly glancing into the mirror, hat in place and through a radiant smile she chirps 'how do I look?' A rhetorical question. In one word Miss Hepburn looked amazing, and she knew it!

Last Thursday night whilst in Freedom on Wardour Street deep in the throng of Soho life surrounded by the great and good of the metro-sexual media world I realised I look anything but amazing. No mirror moment for me. Clad in my 8 year old once quilted, now deflated Barbour jacket, cords the colour of grubby hay and a pair of Campers still muddy from the past weekend trudging through the Fens, it was painfully apparent that I didn't fit in. Golightly had perfected the art of sophistication, effortlessly hanging around with the phoney people, both clients and friends. Her humble beginnings only given away once in a while when you hear in her voice the "country-girl" drawl peek out, a glimpse through the façade. However the overall package is über-perfection. I on the other hand whilst coming from a similar background once again ‘must work harder.’

I’m just not one of 'them' and for that moment of realisation stood at the bar surrounded by the beautiful people I really wanted to be. I wanted to sparkle with gay glitz from the fairy-Fairy.

Not that I've ever really fitted in. At school I always saw it as one of those defining elements that I'd be remembered favourably for. I was proud of my ability to stand out without having to resort to pink hair or a carbon copy wardrobe crowbared out of The Lost Boys. I perfected the ability to make my voice the loudest without being that annoying guy, drink, eat and be merry whilst refraining from looking like a twit and entertain what I perceived as ‘my’ gang of friends with true stories of past experiences with the occasional smattering of slight exaggeration for comic effect.

However stood in that bar, the birthday drinks of an aspiring actor currently performing as a receptionist on Dean Street, I realised I had lost my edge and was in need of sharpening up. A shopping trip was planned, mental notes taken on what passes for fashion and a decision on the pointy or not pointy shoes debate made. I even decided to give a respectful nod towards Tiffany’s as I saunter past, laden with bags. As my good intentions became firmly planted my mind I moved back to the current situation and whilst in this oh-so-trendy bar I opted to make the most of it and so adopted one of Capote’s lines aptly spoken by Holly – looking straight at my very own George Peppard I too chirped – ‘Promise me one thing: don't take me home until I'm drunk - very drunk indeed.’

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