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I would be living in the South of London, abutting the River, next to the "gay village" of Vauxhall, where you can club Friday to Sunday without pause. We'd have London's premier gay club on our doorstep (Duckie) and good tube connections (and relatively cheap taxi fares) to everyone and everywhere we need to be to continue the party.
I'd have a lovely boyfriend, well broken-in by this time, and lots of lovely friends to partay with. Cherry Bomb and sleazenation would be employed as our social workers to help us cope with life's vicisssitudes by feeding us more alcohol.
Lovely Hanabius would text us daily from Edinburgh to keep my spirits up, particularly on Mondays, and we'd have Hogmanay in Edinburgh to look forward to with intellectual über-pixie Ariadne and swivel-hipped Loomis and the Scissor Sisters in Princes St Gardens to excite us in prospect.
And when I got bored with the actuality, as if, I'd fantasise about buying a temple in Cambodia or Kerala and moving in with a state-of-the-art flat screen, a Mission HiFi system, and a struggling Kate Bush, suspended in Gaffa, under my arm. |
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