Yesterday I woke up face down in my white duvet and thought "am I in Heaven?" The answer, when I gathered my thoughts and noted my banging headache was no. Most definately not. Inga and I had been to Nobu for "a few drinks" the evening before and ended up at a party in Knightsbridge returning home at 5am as I have to sleep before it gets to daylight or I want to kill myself. You know when you find yourself still drinking champagne at stupid o clock and the sun is coming up and you think to yourself "oh God. People are getting up now doing normal things and here I am WASTED" and the thought of getting a cab in last nights clothes and facing dissaproving looks from the 9-to-5-ers fills you with panic? So I make sure I am in bed before the sun comes up, in my own apartment.

I looked at my phone and found a lunch invitation at the Connaught with 2 of my broker friends, Dylan and Micheal. So woke Inga up and convinced her to come with me. "Ok, but you're doing my make up..." she compromised.

At 1pm we arrived looking hungover but passable and were given 2 glasses of pink champagne...not what I wanted to see at that moment but it would be rude not to. By half 1 we were back to our usual level of fabulous and in absolute hysterics prank calling people from our friend's firm. When one guy called to ask where the guys were, they handed the phone to me and I replied "well I have Micheal on a leash as we speak, wearing PVC and a mask. If he's very good he can come back after cleaning the toilets". Dylan told us the most hilarious story which had us almost crying we were laughing so hard. The other day he was walking down Oxford street and it was incredibly busy so he found himself moving at a snail's pace behind a very large woman talking on the phone. He couldnt help but overhear her conversation which went something like this (his impression is much funnier than mine) - "You dirrrrrrrty, dirrrrrrrty bastard....you DIRTY fucking BASTARD..." apparently said with so much venom that if phone calls could kill,the guy on the recieving end would have dropped dead that very second. Inga and I had the genius idea of calling Fulham Guy (wanker who broke Inga's heart about a month ago) and having Dylan say those exact words to him, in the exact same voice as the woman on Oxford Street.
Of course, Fulham Guy answered the witheld number calling him - I cant imagine he gets many phone calls so it must have been terribly exciting for him to recieve one in the afternoon. Dylan started "You dirrrrrrty, dirrrrrrrty bastard..." and we almost fell off our chairs. Fulham Guy obviously heard the laughing and hung up. So Dylan called back and left a voicemail. Ha ha ha!

After the Connaught we went to Claridges for bellinis. The guys had to make an appearance at the office at some point, so Inga and I headed home slightly tipsy and still giggling about the whole afternoon. Our taxi driver must have thought we were partially insane and looked slightly worried when we started the whole Dirty Bastard impression again. I think he assumed we were talking about him and was racking his brains for anything he may have done in the time we had got into the cab. Tomorrow we are meeting them again same time, same table for lunch. It must be so much fun being a broker - turn up at the office, spend the entire day going for lunch and drinking, return back and then have dinner at Nobu or somewhere. We also have an invitation to their firm's Xmas party - I think we are the entertainment. Micheal updated my facebook status to 'Madeleine is...getting used to being a broker. PVC always...' - and you know what, if I wasn't intent on marrying one, I may consider it as a career option myself!