VIP = Very Important Prat

When I was younger and the university student surviving on endless variations of packet pasta I really did think that one of the measurements of my success would be the endless VIP invitations I would acquire.

I have arrived to this crucial pinnacle of success. Sadly, it is nowhere close to the fantasy realms of my VIP leather lounge and buff, bronzed cocktail waiter I imagined.

Think plastic cups, over-priced drinks and young, infantile things running around with one hand on their jeans unnecessarily yanking up the denim – despite the fact that their boxers lived uncomfortably under their armpits. This was no haven for fantasy or illusion – rather a cesspool of shredded dreams and faded hopes.

Yet those around me looked so smug while I twisted and turned on the definitely fatigued leather lounge chain-smoking like the jaded jewel I am. And boy, did I ham it up. I called upon every cliché Jewish hand gesture I know from those over-hyped American sitcoms I could draw upon. I used every single lip muscle to pout harder than Keira Knightly on coke.

And at the end of the day, the best I could muster was a mediocre diva exit stage-left. Did anyone notice? No – apart from me. I wonder if the Very Important Prats I considered swanning around my aurora of faux-cool came anywhere close to being a bigger prat than I was.

Did I live for the moment? Did I take it all in and let it go? Most definitely not. I judged it all, like the cynical, professional, non-eating packet pasta fool I am.

Bring on not caring! And please let success reconsider the person I am now.