Posh Lad In East London

There’s something about a Saturday night in Clapham that makes a girl feel like the world is her catwalk. Maybe it’s the overpriced cocktails, but tonight you look fantastic, or maybe it’s just the collective chaos in the air that says: things are about to get feral.

So there I was, with my girl gang, dressed to slay in what I can only describe as the outfit — the kind that makes you strut a bit harder, toss your hair like you’re in a shampoo advert, and say "just one drink" knowing full well you’ll be face down in cheesy chips at 3am.

And drink, oh we did. Prosecco? Of course. Tequila? Regrettably, yes. Whatever was in that jug that claimed to be a cocktail but tasted like regret and fruit punch? Multiple times. One by one, my girls disappeared into the night like sparkly, drunken snowflakes, each off on their own mini adventure. But not me. Oh no. I was staying out. I was in the mood.

Naturally, I ended up on stage — because where else do you go when you’re tipsy, feeling invincible, and dancing like no one’s watching (when in fact, everyone is watching and someone’s filming it for the group chat)? Mid-sway, I feel a tug on my playsuit — steady on, not that kind of night — and I glance down to see a rather delicious, thirty-something man-child looking up at me with these eyes like he’d just seen the Northern Lights for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” he mutters, all doe-eyed and earnest.

Now, I could’ve played it cool. I could’ve smirked, said thanks, maybe even teased him a bit. But no. I launched myself off that stage like a budget Bond girl and before I knew it, we were snogging. Passionately. Publicly. Absolutely zero shame, and definitely no regard for personal space or anyone else's Saturday night vibe. We were that couple.

Cut to: us in an Uber, Eastbound. East. From Clapham. Which is basically like teleporting from Kensington Palace to an alley behind a warehouse rave. Still, we’re mid-snog, mid-chat, mid-whatever-you-want-to-call-it, and the night feels like it’s heading towards one of those stories you can only half tell your mates because the other half is a bit fuzzy or slightly illegal.

Next thing I know, it’s morning. My head is pounding like a techno remix and there’s a fully grown man in my bed snoring like a chainsaw trying to harmonise with a dying walrus. I have one major pet peeve and that, my friends, is snoring. I leg it to the sofa, swearing off men, alcohol, and Clapham simultaneously.

A little while later, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. "Hello?" comes the voice of the disoriented posh man who appears to be experiencing what I can only describe as existential whiplash.

He looks around my humble flat — East London industrial chic (read: concrete and Ikea) — and the poor bloke clearly thinks he’s been kidnapped. Turns out, he lives in a mansion in West London. Actual mansion. Driveway, columns, probably a butler named Charles. And now here he is, shoeless, slightly hungover, and very much not in Chelsea.

The man’s got his coat on faster than you can say “what even happened,” muttering something about how we should "definitely do this again" (sure), before realising he has no idea where he is, who I am, or how he’s going to explain this to whoever’s waiting for him at his manor.

Reader, he did not take my number. Just like that, another one bites the dust.

I was left alone, with a brutal hangover, no memory of half the night, and a mildly bruised ego.

So what did I learn?

Absolutely nothing.See you next time.