Thursday morning, I awoke with a quality hangover, at five am. Try as I might I just can't manage to sleep any later. I flipped open my laptop to see if there was any word from warmLuke and noticed something about volcanic ash closing UK airports. Surely not, I thought, quickly checking the date in my head to make sure it wasn't April 1st. Dammit. It wasn't. And all flights in and out of Heathrow were cancelled. I called the ex. 'Yeah...' He said ruefully, but maybe it'll have cleared by Saturday. Don't worry.
Naturally, I started to worry.
Luis arrived to do our hair for that night's Gala Dinner at the Metropolitan Club with a private performance by a Chamber Orchestra.
'Looks like you're not going to be leaving,' he said as he turned on the hairdryer...'That cloud doesn't seem to be going anywhere and so that means, neither are you...'
The gods are stubbing out a cigarette leaving Europe under a cloud of ash, and I'm stranded in New York. Okay, it's not exactly a maximum security prison to be stuck lounging in the lap of luxury in the East 78th Street Palace with the Russians waiting on me hand and foot, but suddenly the high life feels very, very flat.
Along with my hair.
