Valentine's Day in Manhattan. It's midnight. My boyfriend Mr W and I plus Kiki my John Frieda stylist - also in town for Fashion Week - are having the ultimate “no kids” experience. We're perched on a crowded stairwell in a freezing Chelsea warehouse, watching a raucous set by an impromptu band consisting of two catwalk models, a member of REM, a well-known actor and the lead singer of Screaming Baby.
. . .
It's reassuring to know you've outgrown notions of cool. Still, I felt that by attending the hippest party in the world, I was somehow taking one for the team and returning to report: parties really are as rubbish as when you were 14.
Damn, I've just googled Screaming Baby and they are in fact called Amazing Baby.
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