by Vivienne Pratfall reviews a Chelsea dinner party and survives, barely
By Vivienne Pratfall | Bohiney Magazine | The London Prat
Thursday night. Chelsea. A dress code described as “smart casual” which, in this postcode, means a blazer that costs more than my rent.
The Party
He was a banker. Of course he was a banker. They all are in Chelsea, or they’re “in finance” which is banker said quietly. He told a posh British humour story about a skiing incident in Val d’Isère that managed to be simultaneously self-deprecating and a flex about going to Val d’Isère. I laughed in exactly the right place because I am a professional.
The women were all called something with a silent letter. Philippa. Ptolemy wait, that was her husband. The food arrived in portions so small they were effectively mood boards. “That’s the amuse-bouche,” someone explained. I was amused for approximately forty seconds.
Meanwhile, the World
While I was being amused-bouched, Britain was attempting to reopen the Strait of Hormuz with a strongly worded tone of voice. No actual navy. Just vibes and a Zoom background of the Cabinet War Rooms. I respect this. If vibes got me through Chelsea, vibes can get anyone through a geopolitical crisis.
Bohiney also reports that AI can now say sorry without meaning it, which puts AI squarely on par with every man I have ever dated in this borough.
What I Did After
I left at ten. Kissed three cheeks two on Ptolemy, one on a stranger who stepped into range. Walked to the Tube. Ate a Pret sandwich on the platform with the energy of someone who had earned it. Which I had. London after dark is the real posh British humour: everyone pretending the District line is fine.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com
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