Creaming Spires – 2nd week Trinity


The Etonian. OK, he may not actually have gone to Eton. It might have been Harrow, or Paul’s or Westminster, but wherever it was, he can definitely afford a bloody nice suit and to take you to Malmaison for dinner. 

He has manners on the outside, your parents would love him and he has a holiday home somewhere in Monaco that you’d love to blag your way to. So why are so many posh boys single? Well. They’re looking for wives, dear, and somehow this sex columnist isn’t really meet-the-parents material for these chaps. They’re not exactly open-minded, despite their attempt at rebelling by living in a house in Jericho with some awfully nice housemates, one of whom will invariably be called Iona.

How did I meet him? Bridge VIP (because I could sneak my way into that one). He’s easy to spot – red trousers may be passé now, but rocking a well-cut blazer, monogrammed cufflinks and his college drinking tie (even if it is wrapped around his head) was an easy clue. He actually bought me drinks, and even paid for a taxi, generous fellow. After all the tension, because of course he’s too well-bred for PDA, I was expecting magic and fireworks on a kingsize bed with a goose feather duvet. 

But not only was his bed a single, but all he was into a round of missionary, followed by a good long sleep before waking me up with some freshly scrambled eggs. Of course, he was a lovely chap, but when he started talking about his latest grouse shoot (I’m serious), I found myself dropping off , and excused myself – politely – home. I didn’t even feel a naughty, delicious twinge of guilt walking past mothers with young children at 10AM. Sure, they still covered their children’s eyes to avoid looking at me, but in all honesty, running into a friend walking down St. Giles (hi C!) with no tights on that a chilly morning was the highlight of the encounter. I used to be jealous of the girls with incredible hair who frequent Brown’s with these men on Saturday nights, but no longer – as I’ve figured out, they’re not expressionless because they’re too posh to show emotion, they’re – quite plainly – just bored.


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