Last night I went to dinner with a bunch of my UK sort-of-family (various divorces and remarriages mean they're not family at all, really, but we treat them as such). It was a black-tie do. Now, if you've spent any time with me you've probably heard my rant about suits (although I notice I haven't blogged about it: to do).

It was strange, however, the way a bunch of (extremely fine) crystal and (very old) china plus a bunch of posh frocks and tuxedos converted the evening from "dinner" into... well, an event. Of course, it doesn't prove anything -- maybe we'd have got along as well if we hadn't all been dressed like monkeys -- but it certainly was special. However, I suspect the amazing food, fabulous dessert and divine post-dinner cheeses may have had something to do with that as well. Anyway, it was all very entertaining, and please invite me again. I may have looked like a trapped monkey in my suit but I was a trapped monkey being fed extremely fine cheese. It was a pointless hoop to jump through, but one I would gladly do again.

And there we have it. The soul of suitness that I wouldn't sell for a £60k investment banking gig I would gladly sell for some really nice cheese, apparently. That doesn't mean I'm about to go and get a job in an investment bank, though. This is not a reversal of my position. But I can, at least, see where other people are coming from on this.

Unrelatedly, today I went back to Twelfth House with M and Mikey, which was most enjoyable but terrifyingly expensive. I can't believe we ever ate there, far less went back, but it was extremely good. Another place to put on the "bi-annual" rather than "weekly" visitation list, I think, unless I get a huge raise sometime soon.