Once upon a time
before taking up the mantle of impoverished arts journalist, I was well posh. I went to black-tie dinners at least once a week and amassed a collection of ballgowns that now sit at the back of my wardrobe as a pretty but embarrassing reminder of my social and financial descent.

The highpoint (or perhaps not) of this particular period of indulgence was being invited to a seven-course dinner to celebrate the 700th anniversary of the college, where, amongst other things, we were served roast fucking swan (tastes rank, a bit like leathery fish) and toasted each other with mead out of the silver-encrusted horn of an extinct animal. I took a break after the third course to go and get plastered on champagne and smoke French fags in a medieval cloister.

I dine on pasta a la Lidl these days, but life is sweeter.
(jennymnemonic, Mon 1 Aug 2011, 16:48, Reply)