Walk Of Shame

One of the greatest thing about living in such a fashion-obcessed city, is that, day and night, a mere 60 percent of London women travel in high heels.
The simple knowledge of this fact is quite comforting, especially when you have to brace yourself for the infamous walk of shame in yesterday night clothes.

I found myself in a similar situation this morning, actually feeling quite guilty, which was a first. I ended up on a bus in Highbury, part of town I had never even heard of before, and which, for some reason, seemed so much closer to Soho last night. I mean, surely, the cab ride couldn't have possibly lasted that long?
One of my housemate's favourite "philosophical" sentence is: Time flies when you're having fun. Apparently, he's right.

But the WOS this morning was complete and a complete cliché. French Guy kissed me goodbye on his threshold, door wide open on the busy street, wearing nothing but a towel, while, litteraly a foot away from us, his thirty-something angry neighbour shot us looks of pure hatred, nervously emptying her handbag, looking for her keys,

Then, there was the problem of public transports. I didn't take a shower at his place before I left, hence had a terrible coton-mouth, and I knew I was smelling of sex from ten meters away. Tried to cover it up with cigarette smoke, (which, nowadays, is not really better accepted) but eventually, I got off the bus in Covent Garden:
-first stop, Caffè Nero, where I washed my hands and downed all the possible liquid goods on offer,
-second stop, The Body Shop, where I pretended I was deeply interested in the latest scent and "incidentally" sprayed a copious amount on myself before facing the tube journey, smelling of (sounds like a very lame joke but true) "coco-nut".


Now, the boy... I'm not feeling really proud about that behaviour of mine last night, seeing that:

No, I didn't know him well. Not at all would be more correct actually. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we met at a night bus stop, chatted for 15mins and kept in touch via Facebook. (I'm seriously starting to worry about the ever-growing influence the "social-networking-website" has on my social life...)

Yes, I crossed my boundaries and had a few vodka-based cocktails, drink I had sworn off a year ago probably for a good reason.

No, I didn't even get THAT drunk, so, no excuse there.

Yes, at least five different persons in the club told us to get a room.

Yes, we did get a room, meaning the back of the cab, and his room for that matter, and the living room, and another room which role in the house I'm still not sure about. Laundry??
[reading what I've just written, I think I might have eventually got THAT drunk.]


But what makes me feel worse is that he's o-so-sweet, incredibly handsome, and I'm still not sure if I had ever reached such a level of intimacy with ex-proper-boyfriends. At 6am, we fell asleep entwined with eachother and for once there was no "ouch", "I can't feel my arm anymore" or "I'm dying of suffocation"... And he already texted and rang me.
He's got some serious "potential-boyfriend" material and I behaved more or less like a slut.

Surely, I shouldn't feel bad, because the whole point was making eachother feel good?
We'll see what happens.
But I'm probably going to give all my Sex and the City DVDs to a charity shop, just because the "you shouldn't sleep with him on the first date" rule is mentioned at least once an episode and I can't cope with patronizing advice and reproaches coming from the DVD player. Actually, didn't Carrie sleep with Big before even making it to the restaurant? Hmm... I'll watch it again before ditching it.

Now, to avoid anymore judgemental looks or words, I'm going to work on a more politically-correct version of my night, to serve to my housemates.