Girls who catch cabs...
I chuckle, I gahhh-fffwwahhh
Girls who regularly catch cabs live in a world of their own.
I would love to catch cabs here, there and everywhere.
But sadly I don’t think my ‘fake’ Chloe purse would allow me.
Some of these girls have the fakes as well.
But they have the ‘real’ money-making boyfriend or the ‘real’ money-making job to make that cab-journey home a guilt-free ride.
Or maybe they don’t…
I could hardly place these cab-ferrying women in an Old Man’s Pub.
But yet they come to my resting place.
An Old Man’s Pub.
They dabble in civilian life only to cleanse themselves with a Black Cab ride home.
They drink house wine or sup a dirty pint.
They dip their toes in the puddle of normality.
But it all seems real to me.
An evening dripping in pretension at Soho House, or any House for that matter, is as dirty as buying a kebab from my rodent-ridden local.
Pretending that a job in advertising is glamorous, important and well-paid is a futile exercise in ignorance - and on the same par as convincing yourself that one day you'll give to charity.
Who knows what makes these private-membership-loving-kittens happy?
I just hope these ladies bereft of a well-used Oyster Card, will temporarily ditch the Black Cab pretense for a temporary night of keeping it real.
It will be cheaper.
It will be relaxed.
And there's always in-house entertainment provided on a night bus.
Girls who regularly catch cabs live in a world of their own.
I would love to catch cabs here, there and everywhere.
But sadly I don’t think my ‘fake’ Chloe purse would allow me.
Some of these girls have the fakes as well.
But they have the ‘real’ money-making boyfriend or the ‘real’ money-making job to make that cab-journey home a guilt-free ride.
Or maybe they don’t…
I could hardly place these cab-ferrying women in an Old Man’s Pub.
But yet they come to my resting place.
An Old Man’s Pub.
They dabble in civilian life only to cleanse themselves with a Black Cab ride home.
They drink house wine or sup a dirty pint.
They dip their toes in the puddle of normality.
But it all seems real to me.
An evening dripping in pretension at Soho House, or any House for that matter, is as dirty as buying a kebab from my rodent-ridden local.
Pretending that a job in advertising is glamorous, important and well-paid is a futile exercise in ignorance - and on the same par as convincing yourself that one day you'll give to charity.
Who knows what makes these private-membership-loving-kittens happy?
I just hope these ladies bereft of a well-used Oyster Card, will temporarily ditch the Black Cab pretense for a temporary night of keeping it real.
It will be cheaper.
It will be relaxed.
And there's always in-house entertainment provided on a night bus.
posted by Zap at
11:05 pm
1 Comments:
We advertise. We sell lies to people a lot of the time. This unfortunate truth is something that I wrestle with every day; my saving grace is that I work in digital and my faith in the bigger picture - that we are helping to forge the platform of what comes next.
In an ideal world I'd live in a field, have long hair and get naked with standing stones - but the world isn't ideal and I end up catching cabs instead.
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