Glamour in Shoreditch

Yesterday I attended the inaugural event of the Scandalous High Socie-Tea, which was a vintage swinging affair held in the dark heart of Shoreditch. The style! The glamour! My hair! Let’s re-cap…

I’d somehow managed to drink inappropriate levels of red wine the night before, so woke up Saturday morning feeling less than clever. My hair-rollers suddenly looked like a puzzle to be assembled on the game show Krypton Factor. Although I went into it thinking ‘remember to roll them all the same way’ somehow down the line this turned into ‘roll the little blighters any old way as long as they stay in’, which I totally forgot was the route to all sadness when I last attempted rollers at fourteen. Still, I’d remembered to use tissue around the ends, curl cream (whatever that is), and felt a lot more sophisticated this time around. That is, until I unravelled them and there was a lot more going on around my head than I’d anticipated. Quelle horreur! I was once again fourteen, about to leave for school, and stuck with hair reminiscent of a poodle. Luckily there were a few clips to hand, and by the time I’d swooshed back the frizzy bits I looked acceptable to be seen in public. Hooray!

The Scandalous High Socie-Tea was held at The Fox pub, and was filled with glamorous ladies and gents. Once I got over my shyness I had a nice chat with organiser Fleur (who is just as lovely in person as on her blog - diary of a vintage girl) and spent much of the night people watching and admiring lovely vintage outfits. The pub swung to the sounds of the Sax Pastilles (and with a name like that you’ve got to love them), and we drank pink gin and ate yummy cupcakes from Roaring For Teas. There were also four burlesque dancers, although I only managed to see the one who shimmied from under diaphanous butterfly wings, and that was by peeking around scarves and pin-curl hair-do’s. It was great fun – go to the next one!

There is something about the city at night. It breathes neon, sparks electricity and the darkness is kind to the dingy streets. Story after story is told and re-told – the old men bartering over brightly lit fruit, people spilling out of clubs, an argument, a kiss, a drunken stroll home hand-in-hand. We drove home that night through a city that was pulsing and alive, a source of endless fascination. There is a hard beauty to be found in its concrete casing. I think I like it best when I am observing the world with my seat-belt on.