You're British; Put it Out There

Last night the Handsome Neighbour and I made a foray into Soho House West Hollywood.  Having spent the best part of the afternoon catatonic over my French tax return, it was a plus that I had managed to locate clothing of a random but somewhat matching nature.  But this, apparently, would not suffice:  'you're wearing that?'  remarked the Handsome Neighbour, 'you do realise that Abby will have spent all day getting her hair and make-up professionally seen to?'.  'Really' I replied, and about-turned into the house.  20 minutes, 12 dresses, and a host of unaccessorised indecision later I was back in the car.

On arrival, I understood his concern, but really, all I could wonder was, do these people ever get dirty, in all senses of the word.  I mean, if I'd paid hundreds of dollars to make my hair look natural but better (the hardest look to pull off, believe me) I don't think I'd be rushing to have somebody tug it out of place.  Which, if we apply Darwin's theory of natural selection, kind of defeats the whole reason you spent three hours in the hairdresser's in the first place.

Which segways nicely into another point of discussion over the course of the evening.  Maybe because my hair already looked like it had been dragged through a hedge backwards, I had a number of pleasant chat-ettes with a number of delightfully handsome men.  At the end of the evening the Handsome Neighbour demanded a telephone number recount.  Grand Total:  zero.  This led to some derision on his part:  'but why didn't you just give them your number?' he asked.  I had no real justification except that in my world, you don't just throw your number at people you just happen to bump into over a cocktail.  Apparently, this is not the done thing in Los Angeles.  'Just put it out there' he advised.

Really, are we, the British, doing this now?  I mean, yes, if you are somewhat of an American ilk then maybe you shout from the rooftops about how great you are (even when, in my experience, you suck) but did you not see how riddled with self-deprecating humour Colin Firth was in the run up to his Oscar win?  Even at the pinnacle of British wonderfulness we still don't quite want to self-promote.

There is, of course, an exception to this rule that comes compactly packaged in the form of Sharon Ozbourne, who's hair called to me from the car park before I even saw her face last night.  Kudos Shaz, no one could miss you.