If you take a ride with them you may not come out alive

Well. The last time I wrote I was about to attempt to find friends in the big, scary city. And while some of the details are rather hazy, I think I can call my experiment a resounding success. Possibly too much of a success, in fact.
When your evening starts out with being significantly under charged for a meal and drink by a good looking bar tender, things are looking pretty good. I figured that, if nothing else, I could always start chatting to the bar staff at one of the many many local pubs I went to for dinner. And for a while that's basically all I did. But around 10pm a large group of people came into the pub, and I started chatting to some guy. A free drink, an exchanged mobile number and a black cab ride later I found myself at a house party in a seedy estate building, talking to the chick who lived there about her small child.
By now I'd lost interest in the guy I'd come with. Unfortunately for me, I hadn't realised he was a CRAZY PERSON, and now, two days and over 30 unreplied-to texts messages later, I'm seriously considering calling him and yelling "NO! NO! NO!" into the speaker until he gets the picture.
After a while I started heading home, plus one. Apparently, though, cab drivers in London don't know where anything is, and we were dropped off in the middle of nowhere, in the rain, with no idea how to get home. And even though in the movies kissing in the rain seems really romantic and shit, in reality it's mostly just cold and wet. Plus I was no longer wearing shoes, which made everything significantly more uncomfortable. Still it was a better option than standing around thinking about how lost I was and how I'm ACTUALLY REALLY REALLY GOOD AT LIFE. Promise.
But, as hectic as the trip home was, it had nothing on the aftermath of the next morning when I remembered that I live and work with children, and am not actually allowed to bring men home. Thankfully my windows are wide enough to fit a human body. Joking. But almost not.

Also, today I went to Selfridges, which is pretty much David Jones but fancier. And with the biggest shoe department in London. I spent an hour in there literally caressing the amazing range of designer footwear before going home and crying about the fact most of those shoes will never grace my feet. Joking. But almost not.
Selfridges also has a "wonder room", which I'd never heard of before. Apparently it's a room filled with smaller rooms, which are in turn filled with shiny beautiful things that I don't own, and that makes you leave wondering if prostitution is really such a bad career choice.