My chauffeur pulled up outside a certain London hang-out of high society. No sooner had I trotted out onto the pavement in my 12-inch heels and stared up at the neon sign, then something struck me as being very wrong. All thoughts of what I'd imagined to be a lavish occasion disintegrated like a puff of smoke. Oh jeopardy lay within, my waters kept telling me.
Deeply superstitious of dark forces at work, I got back in the Rolls and ordered Juan to pootle round the block and find somewhere more suitable for a lady of my standing, before the evening was well and truly scuppered. He suggested the Angus Steak House.
But judging by the all-telling neon, all was not well here either.
In the end, after 2 hours of prevarication, we drove to the only suitable place we could find - McDonalds in East Barnet - where we had a 79p McFlurry sandwich and a pint of Coke, before ending up in this lounge, somewhere off gay Old Compton Street (no surprises there, given the name of the establishment and its location). This time, I'm not complaining!
But, of course, it happened a fourth time, these dastardly subliminal messages being sent to me by ordinary neon signs! As we stopped for petrol just off the M40.... this apparition of things to come:
On second thoughts, we were at the M40 services just outside Beaconsfield, which has, in certain quarters, been described as a mini-Hell on the edge of the Chiltern Hills.
Deeply superstitious of dark forces at work, I got back in the Rolls and ordered Juan to pootle round the block and find somewhere more suitable for a lady of my standing, before the evening was well and truly scuppered. He suggested the Angus Steak House.
But judging by the all-telling neon, all was not well here either.
In the end, after 2 hours of prevarication, we drove to the only suitable place we could find - McDonalds in East Barnet - where we had a 79p McFlurry sandwich and a pint of Coke, before ending up in this lounge, somewhere off gay Old Compton Street (no surprises there, given the name of the establishment and its location). This time, I'm not complaining!
But, of course, it happened a fourth time, these dastardly subliminal messages being sent to me by ordinary neon signs! As we stopped for petrol just off the M40.... this apparition of things to come:
On second thoughts, we were at the M40 services just outside Beaconsfield, which has, in certain quarters, been described as a mini-Hell on the edge of the Chiltern Hills.
