The Fag Hag was wandering through Covent Garden yesterday, rocking a Louboutin gingham wedgie heel in baby pink down below and a Wayfarer up top when she noticed a bit of a kerfuffle outside the brasserie selected for her lunch meeting.
Constable men stood there forebodingly in those luminous jackitos (tres House of Holland, darlings) whilst confused tourists scuttled behind a giant police cordon. ‘What’s going on? Let me through I’m having lunch in there!’ I cried imperiously with the urgency of a surgeon at a 10-car pile up.
‘Street close,’ smiled an elderly Greek woman rather smugly. Thanks for the tip, Aphrodite. ‘Closed? But I have a 1pm in that restaurant!’ I replied. One of the constable type men cast a covert glance at my cleavage before whispering conspiratorially, ‘It’s kind of a big day in London. With the protests and everything?’ Oh of course. Silly me. ‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘I could have worn my Marc Jacobs balaclava.’
But the Fag Hag is nothing if not spontaneous so off I trotted towards Bank to try and hunt down the VIP area..