I went to a fashion show Wednesday night at Uber Toronto scenester mecca – Ultra. What? you haven’t heard of it? It’s only the centre of the universe where the beautiful peeps meet to look pretty on the outside - though I must admit it took me quite some time to locate.
It started with the fiasco that is parking in Toronto. I ended up emotionally blackmailing a kitchen porter into lending me his parking space for a couple of hours or face the wrath of god on judgement day should I be raped and killed looking for a space in one of those god awful municipal 10 storey car parks. What? It was late – like after dark late! and I was tottering about on ridiculous heels.
Turns out I’d have been safer negotiating the slopes of a high rise car park building in those heels than I was clacking up and down Queen Street in unforgiving 4 inch Calvin Klein strappy (slappy) sandals searching for a door so dark and small, professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have fared much better.
I took styling tips from the gossip mags that told me clingy and neon plus heels and gold accessories is how the youth of today ‘be rolling’. Turns out looking like Demi Moore isn't that simple. I settled for Roger Moore in drag and was only glad the lighting was dim enough to put my flaws in soft focus. In any event, I figured people would soon be sporting their vodka goggles - either way I'd be off the hook.
Oh but what Moroccanesque delights awaited me inside! Well worth the permanent lower back damage. Dark, sultry and seductive; a wonderful setting for dinner - had I actually made it to dinner. So now I'm ravenous, my feet are starting to look and feel like beef jerky and the fashion show wasn't starting for at least an hour. Nothing left to do but dance and drink and party.
It started with the fiasco that is parking in Toronto. I ended up emotionally blackmailing a kitchen porter into lending me his parking space for a couple of hours or face the wrath of god on judgement day should I be raped and killed looking for a space in one of those god awful municipal 10 storey car parks. What? It was late – like after dark late! and I was tottering about on ridiculous heels.
Turns out I’d have been safer negotiating the slopes of a high rise car park building in those heels than I was clacking up and down Queen Street in unforgiving 4 inch Calvin Klein strappy (slappy) sandals searching for a door so dark and small, professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have fared much better.
I took styling tips from the gossip mags that told me clingy and neon plus heels and gold accessories is how the youth of today ‘be rolling’. Turns out looking like Demi Moore isn't that simple. I settled for Roger Moore in drag and was only glad the lighting was dim enough to put my flaws in soft focus. In any event, I figured people would soon be sporting their vodka goggles - either way I'd be off the hook.
Oh but what Moroccanesque delights awaited me inside! Well worth the permanent lower back damage. Dark, sultry and seductive; a wonderful setting for dinner - had I actually made it to dinner. So now I'm ravenous, my feet are starting to look and feel like beef jerky and the fashion show wasn't starting for at least an hour. Nothing left to do but dance and drink and party.
After locating my friends, a couple of saucy Brits, I spent the night shifting my weight from one foot to the other - much like a horse does in its sleep - exchanging laughs and loves from back home - nothing too cultured and almost all irreverent. The Fat Slags, Buster Gonads and Terry Fuckwit to name a few childhood comedy heroes from the comic book Viz dominated the conversation. If you don't know it...and you think you're hard enough you can find these ground-to-air walking disasters at http://www.viz.co.uk/.
Finally, not that the chit chat wasn't riveting, rumblings of the start of the cat walk show filtered through. Midnight I believe it was. I was on my third vodka red bull for sustenance and suddenly the irritating thought of a 6am start the following day began filtering through the fug of alcohol and leg ache. Shoo!
I watched these waif like creatures, floating down the runway curious as to what a gust of wind would do to them. I imagined them floating down to earth as softly as a duck feather into the path of a car. No! Mean woman - mean jealous woman!!
I wouldn't be able to get a wrist through any one of the trouser legs on stage, notwithstanding (may I be struck dumb with ingratitude) it was a delightful show and a wonderful night out.
I had a sobering thought on the way home - did I really miss London that much or the social life afforded me there by having this sort of night on tap - as I had once had? and if that was the case - perhaps the social life, under the right circumstances can be interchanged.
After a ferocious struggle in the bathroom with my Spanx and the most inconsequential of ablutions, I fat-footed it to bed with all the finesse of a wrestler. Somewhere between a sigh and a turn, I had a sparky little thought that I might be onto something with this socialising malarkey. Maybe it's not Canada and it wasn't London...maybe it's just always been me? At the risk of spending half the night wondering how to solve a problem like me...I let sleep take me. Afterall, tomorrow is another day.
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