We are all doomed but AI AI AI AI AI will always love you. Is there any rosé left?

Casual conversations on dancefloors among anxious journalists who humming and clattering like that fridge that is gonna conk out any time

Late last night, stood on the edge of the dancefloor as my friends’ wedding was drawing to a close I had a conversation with three fellow, now mostly former, lifestyle journalists. We were actually five journalists talking to each other but one was the bride and she had better things to do than hover in our circle of impending doom.

One, no longer a journalist, is a fashion stylist and wardrobe and shopping consultant to Arabs. One has a pretty big job on a paper. One is in her second life career (I cannot identify the nature of the career for I must not identify her), one is me. In this miserable EMO party of four we mulled our future prospects as media people.

Before we started though, one of my former colleagues commented rudely on my outfit. It was a really old antique silk tea dress with a little pelmet that I used to wear with Mary Janes but my achilles feels like old hard rope so I wore it with a pair of years old Chloe zip up gladiator-y looking sandals. I thought it looked OK. It’s a nice dress. She didn’t think so. A tiny sharp laugh and, “Very country.” She was wearing something very structured and shiny and short. And a nice pair of brand new Rupert Sanderson sandals. COW. “Very country.” “Very country.” “VERY COUNTRY”.

Kate’s put a dress on for once, it’s VERY COUNTRY

This exact same tea dress and old flat Chloe boots combo had caused a similar snort from my ex when I wore it on one of the very rare occasions I had to do wifely corporate duties with lots of his colleagues and their wives, who were very nice people actually, but certainly all dragged up in big money outfits fresh off the hanger in Selfridges International Designer Room, the bit with carpets where the clothes are proper spenny. There was me in some crumbling old silk treasure from Antiquarius. It didn’t really fly. He clocked that. I clocked that. This was a year ago almost to the day just as the end was winnying, neighing and nighing at me.

In fashion terms, even before I left London, I’m was semi-retired. You dress like a primary school headmistress. So I’m a retired dairy cow now I live in Somerset. Put out to pasture. We could always slaughter her and eat her I spose and make it big fuss about sustainability. Eating old dairy cows is so hot right now. But frankly I’d rather eat Torres and tofu. She’s basically useless.

There is a memoirmageddon going on right now; it’s over the criminal lies, fraud and theft behind the bestselling memoir, and now a movie with Julianne Moore, The Salt Path. Sophie Heywood is brilliant on it here including the line, “all memoirists are still liars”.

I can't believe she did that!

Anyway, it probably wasn’t quite as bad as I remember it but “all memoirists are still liars” is a fact of writing about your life.

It has stayed with me, the conversation on the edge of the dancefloor and not because of the big fashion diss. It haunted my restless sleep and was still there when I opened my eyes this morning and as I edited this before I went to bed.

It’s a conversation I have regularly endured, the dying of the legacy media I was raised on, but this one was especially chilling because I hadn’t had enough to drink last night. I could not drink to forget because I’d been late to the wedding and all the rosé had run out.

Guess what, more DOG LEG is coming. ABOUT BEING LATE to a wedding, it STARTS AFTER THE MONEY JUMP