“Dirty Martini, Dirty Bastard.”

Ever since Samantha Jones threw a Dirty Martini in Richard Wright’s face in Series 5 of Sex and the City, managing to relatively cool off after catching him eating another woman’s “sushi” and probably receiving a lot of “Yeah, Samantha!” praises from the women watching from behind the screen, the said drink has somehow been top of mind – should I ever need to throw something in a guy’s face and get even – for a variety of reasons – or simply get a drink.

And so it happens that I managed to get a first sip of the vindictive liquor in the American town of Fredericksburg, Virginia, last autumn, as I went out for dinner with a close friend and her fiancé. I was told they made good Martinis in the respective restaurant – and indeed the glass that was offered included the right proportion of vodka, vermouth, olive brine, not to mention the adequate olive. My Martini was alcoholic enough to be … well, alcoholic, and bitter-y enough to make sure I didn’t get drunk straight away, which is always a 10 out of 10 probability given my infantile consumption of alcohol. The Brits find it shocking.

This first experience was enough to make me want to take additional sips of this dirty drink, which I managed to do just fine on a recent party in Shoreditch, when I consumed a whopping! two glasses. Though I have to confess, that on this occasion there was perhaps a little too much vodka and the olive brine was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it did not want to get in the glass, who knows? Hm.

And most recently, I am pleased to say that I have started my 2018 with a somehow late brunch at The Hoxton near Holborn. Food and flat white almond latte later, I felt like a drink to wash down the calories and sophisticatedly welcome in the New Year. Therefore, I went for – you guessed it – a Dirty Martini with gin instead of vodka. I will most likely not repeat the spirits combo again and keep to the traditional vodka – I am surprised with myself right there – but one thing is for sure.

There are plenty of Dirty Martinis in this girl’s future social opportunities. Let’s just hope the potential men will not give me the opportunity to throw it in their face. Yes, I did just say that. And yes, you should take it literally.

In the event of this (unlikely?) situation, as flight attendants would put it, let’s allow Sam to show us how it’s done.

I amaze myself sometimes.

Just when I thought I had seen enough of my own shortcomings, I managed to surprise myself by fully posting a letter without any address on the envelope whatsoever. I now know I am solely responsible for and behind this deed, as the local Post Office has been kind enough to open the letter, pick up my own address from the top right corner and post it back to me. And confront me with more than sufficient proof of my own absent-mindedness.




Men + white socks = Big “No-no”, please.

They say fashion is always changing, but aren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Or does that apply to our personal and professional lives only?

I beg to differ I am hereby typing out loud a question that has been on my mind for a couple of months now: where have all these young men in their white socks come from?

We have been telling men for the past twenty something years that the colour of their socks should ideally match that of their trousers, jeans or shoes and be, the occasional exception aside, non-white.

Is there some sort of an 80s revolution (should I say, involution) happening in the world right now, with men rebelling against the non-white rule and sporting white socks ideally with above-the-ankle jeans and Nikes, just so you see all of that sock and all of that whiteness? Kind of like in a Colgate commercial? (Shot in Shoreditch?)

Could we go back to black and manhood, please? The John Travolta Grease age is so over and you’re no Andy Murray on the courts at Wimbledon sweating it out for a world tennis championship title either.

Sorry. Not sorry.

In the words of a friend who recently told me she lost it at the sight of a Whole Foods opening up in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, “I can’t even deal”. She’s American, so in British English that translates as “It is very upsetting” or even “Quite troubling”. Which means it is really serious business, indeed.