Rachel, Sambuca and a Rickshaw

 I may have had a smidgen too much influence on Rachel the Intern. Apparently she turned twenty last week and has since become determined to leave her teens behind her with the same gritty determination one has when trying to dump a blind date before the food is ordered.

Anyway Rachel has become a Mini Me and I am actually quite flattered. Some people hope to impart wisdom, love and peace to those around them, I am happy for my legacy to be sarcasm, right-wing cynicism and a pursuit of mindless gratification. We've got to teach these kids something after thirteen years of Labour education! I have a friend who has been 'seeing' a chap who refuses to watch films with subtitles because of 'all the sentence things covering the screen and getting in the way.' Yes, his entire secondary education was under Labour and yes, she is a cradle snatcher.

To cut a long story short - at Rachel's request we went to a few of the pubs in Westminster and enjoyed a few shandys. This resulted in us being so legless that I had to pay for a cab back to Rachel's sister's flat and then on to my own. I will be telling her to cough up the money for that when I see her next. 

I received a rather angry phone call from Rachel's sister as I was falling through my front door. Rather than drinking a glass of water and passing out on the sofa, Rachel had decided to light a cigarette (which she had taken from me) and then opened her sister's bottle of sambuca. There was mention of sick and stomach pumping but I haven't had it confirmed by Rachel yet. She did however send me a text this afternoon. 'Soz for my sis calling you a ****'. I've had worse.

I have a vague memory of getting onto a rickshaw last night and declaring myself Boudica: Bitch Queen of London Town. What worries me is that I don't think there are any rickshaws in Westminster. Where the hell did we go? Unless that was when Rachel joked about trying to find where Zac Goldsmith lived and I promptly hailed a cab...

Toodles.