In the midst of waves of visitors we threw a party, collecting an extremely random assortment of people at Jaguar Shoes for a belated joint fortieth birthday celebration.
The whole thing was hilarious, not least because our friends, when offered the opportunity, imposed their own natural social segregation. All the scientists and business people congregated together, all the literary types huddled on the other side of the room, with just a few confused new recruits and one Israeli attempting to mingle.
It was too loud and intense to do otherwise - Saturday in Shoreditch is a vomitus mad frenzied phenomenon I would normally avoid, preferring the serenity of my clean modern apartment. I routinely decline invitations to events in my own neighbourhood because, um, I need to wash my hair. Or something.
But it was quite nice to watch as the drunken crowd surged around us all night.
Toward the end I was explaining my position on weddings (loathe the symbolism, love the spectacle) when my agent said something indicating that she believes I am "cool."
This halted all philosophising. I protested "But I'm not!"
She shook her head and informed me that I am "beyond cool," and I was flabbergasted.
This exchange weighed on my soul through the rest of the evening, until I rolled the drunks out to the curb and said goodbye to the last stragglers.
On the way home I interrogated my companions about the subject.
Anika said "That surprised me to hear, since you hate cool people."
What a conundrum.