Smashing Luv, absolutely smashing!

Damn, where the hell have I been? Well where the hell have you been? This ain’t all on me, you know. A while back I was getting some serious heat about updating this thing. Ok, maybe not serious heat, but heat nonetheless. I appreciate that, I truly do. But such has been my vagabond existence lately that aside from an afternoon of drunken debauchery with Senator Gleyze (yes I know, the words “debauchery” and “Gleyze” are redundant) and Gimpasaurus Rex on Hong Kong’s bucolic south side, there has not been much to say or show. Honestly, you need pictures of moving vans in front of my flat? Of course not.

But now summer is here and I have finally found my way back to work thanks to Uber Editor Pietro’ Comparelli and his glossy tai-tai rag-mag Prestige. So here we are in foggy London town, where I have been sent on assignment to write something on the Wimbledon fortnight. Jolly good. But one thing is missing in foggy old London town: fog. I packed a whole bunch of cold weather gear including a few rain coats, or as they call them in England “Macs” (don’t ask, apparently you have to have pasty flesh and bad teeth to understand http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2008/06/23/serena_plays_herself_into_unse.html).

But as the man says, the weather has just been smashing around here. Sunny and temperate, even old Nelson Mandela showed up for his 90th birthday party in Hyde park the other night wearing nothing more than a smile and a light sweater (sorry luv, I meant a wooly jumper).

So here I am, thanks to the generosity of Lord Dow of Famulak, no more than a few blocks away from Hyde Park, shipwrecked in Belgravia with all the other poseurs floating around Harvey Nick’s and Harrods. And here I will stay until it rains again. I ain’t leaving London until I get wet. After all, what am I going to do with all those “Macs” in me bag?