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The Fiesty Girl's
Guide to Life
By Moocher Sam Pease
Mr Captain (The Indigestible)
This date repeated on me - a bit like the feeling you'd get if you ate a duck's foot after it had been marinated in homeopathic cough medicine and soaked in horse urine for ten days. This date was a gastronomic nightmare.
Mr Captain, an old acquaintance I hadn't seen in a decade, invited me to a squillionaire's "party of the year" on a nearby island (and it did not go according to plan).
Firstly, I was the only ethnic blend ñ it was like throwing a chocolate into a bowl of snow.
Secondly, my take on the theme of 'daytime decadence' was a little unorthodox. They meant drench your dull floaty summer sacks in diamonds, not impersonate a Harajuku Girl in a glam-goth white tutu and candy-red corset. Oops.
And thirdly, as if I wasn't already sticking out like the only liberal commentator on Fox News, I was the youngest. By far.
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