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  • After having a running from work,
    dressing up to the nines,
    and legging it to the station,

    I was in the back of a black cab heading to The Turf Club in London,
    to the 60th anniversary of the a certain gentleman's club.
    The rule; to bring someone other than your wife.
    I went with the barrister.
    He was my Mr Higgins.

    I was completely out of sort.
    I knew it would be fancy,
    and by jove it was.
    Candles and chandeliers, vintage champagne and wine and port,
    black ties and tuxes,
    real fox fur on ladies' shoulders,
    diamonds a plenty.
    Rooms labeled "The Powder Room", (the only place I could snap a photo of myself)
    marble staircases,
    silver dishes,

    I was sat next to the owner of The Stage magazine on one side,
    a novelist opposite me,
    an historian,
    the guest were my dream opportunity,
    this was an incredibly high circle that Kat Jones found herself in.

    Very intellectual conversation was laid out,
    I spoke out about my opinions, my beliefs,
    I tried to shine,
    this was not the time to be the wall flower.

    I wanted to make an impression,
    being the youngest by a good couple of decades, I already stood out.
    But I wanted to be understood too.
    The old chaps, literary and legal, were welcoming,
    fascinated by me and I was fascinated by them.
    the whole evening was a showcase of what I could be,
    and who could help me.
    I would never have had this opportunity.
    Would never dream of it.
    It was an excellent window to an opulent life.

    It was all going rather swimmingly until the final drinks of the golden sweet wine.
    Only a cluster or two of people left.
    A woman in our group,
    wearing a grey, floor length gown, mother of pearls glimmering,
    crows feet at her eyes,
    ashen teeth from a lifetime of nicotine,
    the age of when smoking was glamorous.
    She had the floor,
    the subject was degrees,
    her statement,

    "well isn't history of art about the laziest degree you can get these days..." she began.
    The barrister diplomatically stood up with words of confidence.
    I wasn't upset though.
    I looked at her.

    I am younger than her,
    thinner than her,
    prettier than her,
    and have life ahead of me.
    To make such a cynical statement shows insecurity,
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