High life | 28 December 2012

The horror at Newtown, Connecticut put a damper on the unending rounds of end-of-year parties. And that includes my own Christmas blast at the Boom-Boom room in honour of Lindsay Lohan and some of the prettiest girls in the Big Bagel. At times I think I missed my vocation: Protector-Confessor of fallen women or those about to take the plunge. My only salvation lies in good old Helvetia, where the mother of my children will whip me back into shape in no time. No booze, no sex — just salads and mineral water. Ugh! Mind you, I’m not so sure about my marriage to Miss Lohan. Too many cops around her, and they make me nervous. My party began at nine in the evening and eight hours later was still going. My bill was bigger than the Greek debt, and then some.

Ironically, I had driven by Newtown the day before the massacre of innocent children on my way to Newport Rhode Island to inspect a sailing boat up for sale that was once owned by my father.