A night with the other half

An Old Etonian friend took me to Boujis nightclub on Friday, where a table costs £600 plus tip.

(That's £130 for each of the five males in our party since Sloan lore dictates females pay nothing in such places.)

Confronted with the strictest set of door staff in London, a large girl who'd eaten with us at Cocoon said she had to visit the cashpoint and never came back. Like Captain Oates' sacrifice in the Antarctic, I imagined it was for the sake of her companions.

Inside and already feeling culpable I was cheered by the introduction of a tall and intriguing girl from Vienna named Clara. Straightaway we started talking about the oddness of privilege and the difficulty of being happy. An hour of dilated pupils later later we were smitten and on the dancefloor I leant in... only for her to turn her face away. What!!

I continued to dance with her for as long as my embarassment allowed before slinking outside for an outraged cigarette. Women are exceptionally wonderful and, without exception, weird.

When I returned she sat next to me and asked where I'd gone, but I hardly knew what to say. Nevertheless I summoned some talk from God knows where and, at at 4am, back in my friend's Mayfair apartment, we drank champagne and smoked and she showed me her new dress. But I couldn't make another pass, and that was that. Now she's back in Austria.

I think one of the more dismal Etonians - my Friend's flatmate - liked her, as he kept putting his arm round my shoulder. Perhaps she thought kissing me would be bad form, given that she was staying on their sofa. Or else with my lunge I'd breached some code known to sophistiques.

(But she'd asked the house DJ to play some Britney Spears. A bit gauche for a Viennese aristocrat, no?)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly on Saturday was brilliant. Perhaps my bloodstream was still coursing with Friday's alcohol, but I couldn't help weeping along with the rest of the audience.