Wake up sober, get up drunk. Sway gently to the beautiful cleansing rhythms of the Modern Jazz Quartet whilst ironing crisp white shirt. Look out of the window of my Marble Arch hotel room. Try to remember the chaos of the night before. Dress in lighted grey three-button summer suit, crisp white aforementioned, silver links, black/sky tie, stout brogues (black). Stroll through the lobby, receive knowing look from the concierge. Thrust myself out into the hubbub of Oxford Street.
Stride purposefully to Piccadilly Circus. Straight into the bar at the Criterion, demand a very large Ted Rogers (see 'Cocktail of the Gods' entry). Down it in one. Plonk self at end of bar, read cricket reports, chuckle at Surrey's plight. Order second Ted. Finish. Step out into afternoon light. Weave way to a small poetry reading in Greek Street, declaim beautiful, hysterical, decadent and romantic verse for two hours. Leave smothered in kisses, with a rather feisty thing called Maisy on my arm, glowing with sheer unadulterated delight. Hail Taxi and head for the banks of the River Thames. Get out, propose undying love to the night, the city and the stars and then head back to Marble Arch.
Wake up drunk, get up later...
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