Bunking Off

Dream sequence: It's the middle of the night at Rhino75 Towers. The phone rings. I throw back my Frette cotton satin sheets and reach for my new Rokr phone (well, it IS a dream). It's Bookpacker (who sounds scarily like Glenn Close, circa 1987): "I won't allow you treat me like some slut you can just update a couple of times and throw in the garbage, rhino75...I'm not going to be IGNORED." The line goes dead. Cut to Miss Kitty's favourite toys bubbling away in a pot on the stove. I wake up. Dissolve into swirliness. The End. What could it all mean, dear reader? Has rhino75 been hitting the cheeeseboard a little too hard before bedtime? Could it be the absinthe talking? Have I been overdosing on Wallpaper magazine again? No, no. I fear it was a good old ticking off from my conscience for not updating poor old Bookpacker for a week (my italics). The reason: I've been bunking off (playing hookey for our transatlantic cousins). All day Tuesday, for example. And I heartily recommend it. A lie-in, brunch, mid-morning TV ("The Love Boat" etc.), a leisurely stroll to the bookstore, then down to the Seine, a wander through the Latin Quarter - it all feels just that little bit more naughty when you know you should be sitting at your desk. Sunshine, ice-creams, window-shopping, homemade margaritas... I could go on, but you'd only hate me. Perfect. Try it, go on. Just for one day. It's sweet. "But that was two days ago, rhino75," I hear you cry. "What's your excuse since then?" Well, I'm pleased to be able to tell you that my move into ***showbiz*** is now official. This is good, but in ***showbiz*** just like any other job, it takes a little time to learn the ropes. So that's what's been keeping me busy. Ah, the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. Cue applause. It's a wrap.