Just got back from dinner with S at dish-dash on Goodge Street. Some call the area Fitzrovia, although they seem to call it Noho on their website. Noho, I ask you. I know there's a restaurant called Noho, but now it turns out it's an acutal up-and-coming location. And adds at least £20,000 to the purchase price of any property, I would wager. Noho is the new Fitrovia. North of where, I ask you?
Anyway, we put the world to rights over a bottle of chilled, still water, because we really live on the edge when it comes to drinking. Women in their thirties. Complexion concerns. Transparent motives, right? S was full of fab ideas on how I could permanently avoid the world of nine to five, and suggested I might be creatively hampered by the dirty commercial world. Don't I know it, but does anyone have a better idea?
We were once both headhunters in the same straight-laced - and that's not a corset - English firm. It's a world where your judgement on other people is pretty much everything, and consultants are constantly coming up with new ways to describe people; she reported overhearing a former colleague comment thus on a candidate:
"He's a wheel 'em in, dry-ice kinda guy who needs his grapes peeled."
As I'm so fond of saying, this week; you couldn't make it up.
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