I met Percy on Thursday. It was a little past midnight, we were at a table downstairs at Le Baron and I was sitting cross-legged, barefoot, with my loafers folded neatly behind me. It had been a night to grieve; just before Le Baron I was at the 'launch' of Voodoo Vault---which, by the way, was as dead as the crypt it was named after---in the club formerly known as Salon formerly known as Le Baron. Is that space cursed or what? Ever hopeful, we moved on to our trusty standby, Maddox. However a departing Molaroid and his flock of corseted females duly informed us of the futility of seeking any such amusement there, as it was d-e-a-d, dead-er than my love for The Box.
And this is how I found myself downstairs at Le Baron, not even bothering to put on my dancing shoes or really any shoes at all. As my loafers poked my back, I gazed out at the dance floor. It was devoid of all that we loved about London nightlife; our friends (can you all please come back from Dubai/Paris/your full-time relationships?), the electric magic, and...something, perhaps the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a once easily pleased ingenue new to the London club scene yet to be jaded by endless rounds of free tables, free drinks, and scores of men begging to dance with her.
So Percy and I introduced ourselves and we talked; about mutual friends, about his label (PPQ), about the gentrification of Shoreditch, while I lifted my glass of champagne and toasted, sardonically, to the strangers on the dance floor. London. "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." I don't think so. I still love London, I'm just tired of the same-old same-old parties, the blah nightlife and dying clubs...
Happily, last Saturday a brief respite from London was offered when Percy texted "Be at yours with Benjamin in an hour. We're going to my country house." Of course nobody would tell me where we were going. They did solemnly suggest that they were going to France to sell me into slavery.
Thankfully the truth was far less exciting, we were in fact spending the weekend at P's country house in Ventnor, on the Isle Of Wight.
Kindly excuse the poor quality of the photos; I left my Leica in London and had to make do with my iPhone. And Photoshop...lots of it.