East India Club

Simon B and I dolled ourselves up and trotted off to the East India Club in London’s St James’ Square last night. It was our annual Old Cranleighan dinner, and an opportunity to mix with the social elite. It was thoroughly impressive, with Jac’s stepdad, an amusing-looking man and host for the night. After a few drinks, he’s frankly anybody’s, and after swaying towards us and clutching the nearest scantily-clad girl, he proceeded to regail us about the time he danced with 6 indian woman in Harare. “I was on fire that night” he boasted, before haring off after another buxom woman wobbling past.
The speech after dinner was surprisingly entertaining, with reference made to Wally Brown, an old school prefect. Right on queue, puncturing a moment of silence, Simon B shouted, “Oh, where is he now”, neatly making reference to the Where’s Wally books and causing the two people opposite to collapse in laughter, tears rolling from their cheeks. Believe me, it’s funny after 3 glasses of port.
So, I’ve successfully entered the realms of posh London life without being rumbled. As we ambled back to my car, we noticed the square was littered with expensive cars and huge offices, and firmly decided that we would join them in a few years. Possibly.