“I’m broke, I’m miserable I want to go to Claridges” so says my best friend. I love when people tell me they are broke, I earn less than a fifth of what she does and I am rarely flustered. Broke is a state of mind and so is denial - needless to say we have a table for two on Sunday morning. Breakfast at Claridges is a real treat. Served in the divine foyer underneath the Dale Chihully chandelier, that reminds me of Medusas snake hair. The chairs are huge and comfortable, the china is beautiful and the service is pleasant and not overly posh. I always have Pancakes with double cream and fruit (healthy option) and rose tea. I like looking at the other guests – divine little gilded children in Ralph Lauren outfits. Out of town, skinny bleached girlfriends with their fat bald boyfriends. I saw Marc Jacobs there once eating a sandwich studiously reading as if to deliberately ignore his boyfriend. I love that ridiculous hag Courtney Love is apparently banned after starting a small fire in her suite – money can’t buy you forgiveness at Claridges but it could get you a few weeks in the Betty Ford.
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