Not Only in The Hamptons

As my regular reader knows I’m an avid follower of David Patrick Columbia’s New York Social Diary and have introduced several friends to its considerable pleasures. So much so that one of them suggested I should launch a Venice Social Diary. After all, there are some weeks when Mr F and I can hardly hear ourselves think for the pop of prosecco corks.

But we really don’t have what it takes. We paddle in the shallows of society. No bold-face celebs drop by and the few millionaires we know are the kind who stay home, eat shepherd’s pie and just quietly mail a cheque. We know no victims of ill-advised facelifts. And hardly anyone who would think of paying more than a 100 bucks for a handbag. Also, we scoured the albums and we couldn’t find even one person of our acquaintance who crosses their legs for a photo.

It makes the calves appear slimmer, apparently, and so is reckoned to be worth risking the impression that you’re dying for a pee.

We regularly fail to make Lists A, B or Z and the paparazzi neglect to doorstep our parties but frankly, we’re relieved. What an effort it must be, keeping up your end with gorgeous clothes. Remembering to cross those chunky calves.

But even in August we Dorsoduro sadsacks do have a social life and I can share with you the following exclusive: tonight we dine with captains of industry Krys Grudniewicz and David Leech. On the menu, cold sesame noodles, a pancetta-wrapped veal roast, and a chocolate bombe with raspberries. The wines will be by Billa supermarkets and the washing up will be done by Bosch. Thank God. 


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