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30th October
2010
written by Dame Suzy

No, it wasn’t with would-be Parisian-Algerian gang rapists. And the best time I’d had was when I got into a car with a bunch of Catalans. So what was the worst ride?

New York, last weekend, with Canadian investment bankers.

It started out well. After watching The Social Network in IMAX, I was dropped off in the Meat Packing District, which the cab driver told me had been transformed in the last five or seven years into a nightlife mecca.

I had a lovely mojito at some bar and started talking to a cute boy with dark hair. I was introduced to several of his colleagues, including a hot guy and a super-tiny Asian girl, who ended up having a higher rank than many dudes much taller than she was. They all worked for an Australian investment bank and most were Canadian. That wasn’t in and of itself a problem, and certainly the cute guy and hot one were much more intriguing to me than the fish out of water guy in a bad suit and butt-ugly tie, who otherwise was very good-looking. Why oh why do good-looking guys cock-block themselves by acting dumb or wearing ugly clothes?

Anyway, I flirted a lot with the cute one, and I was wearing a dress that probably no one else in the city was wearing that night. Straps and criss-cross ties, tiny studs in a tattoo pattern down the sleeves, short but in good taste, showing off just an inch or two of healthy décolletage.

Then the twenty of them decided to go to another place and jumped into five taxis. I stupidly chose one without the cute or hot guys, thinking shortly we’d all be together, and anyway, who wants to look too interested in someone? That’s not cool.

Then began a journey to nowhere, a twenty-minute ride to a place that wasn’t open, then another twenty minutes back to the place from where we had started except that the cab driver had made a mistake because my companions didn’t know where they were going, then my bladder simply being unable to handle yet another twenty minutes so I exited at some random bar where I talked with random uninteresting guys. And at three o’clock, a sigh and a taxi back to bed.

The anti-climax is the worst end to an evening. Pfffftt, like a deflating balloon or a warm piña colada.

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