Who's counting anyway?

T's eldest brother stayed with us this weekend (I say eldest, as before T, there's Little Miss Tiny T and after T come Slightly Older T, Older T and Eldest T).

Anyway, we've always so enjoyed his visits to NY, and were delighted to have him drop by en route back to Paris. As always, T was adamant to make Eldest T re-live his youth before he goes back to his family, where he has to be a responsible citizen again.

All it takes is a Saturday night.

A vodka ice bar.

Yes, I always wear my fur at night.

Priming at Dragon I, followed by thumping house music and girlie cocktails at Drop.

And just as your feet are tired and you're feeling quite satisfied with the evening all round. You have 28 flights of stairs to climb.

Not quite part of the plan.

Three words: typhoon. flood. lift. broken. Four words.

I knew there was a downside to living in the penthouse.

After being escorted to the rear end of our building, where the entrance looks like somewhere you'd never come out alive from. We started to climb the long, winding staircase to bed.

The evening and the rest of the weekend passed before my eyes, and through my knees as I pounded those stairs to the top. Why did we have those-bloody-shots-when-I-don't-even-like vodka. What's-the-point-of-wearing-pretty-shoes-if-you-can't-hike-stairs-with-them. Why-did-I-stop-going-to-the-gym? Do-I-have-enough-milk-for-coffee-in-the-morning?

And worst of all, why has T disappeared to the top already? and why is Eldest T walking 12 times faster than me when-he's-the-one-with-the-family-and-10-years-disadvantage?

Seriously need to get into some sort of presentable shape.

Thank goodness the lift is fixed.