Single Girls and their Wingmen and BFs and Girl Playmates and Squeakies hopped in their Cabbage last night to confront the Clit Teasers, Social Hand Grenades, and All Text No Trousers types who awaited them in the City. Some of them wound up at Bloomingdale's SoHo at the book party for Imogen Lloyd Webber's advice manual The Single Girl's Survival Guide, which is the source of the wholly original euphemisms above and many more. "[Pink superscript 'I']t is a truth which should be universally acknowledged that a single girl can be in possession of the most wonderful life," the book begins. With the help of photographer Nikola Tamindzic and maybe one too many passionfruit mojitos, tee hee, I set out to discover whether this could be true.
As heavily made-up ladies milled around the third floor (DvF!) of Bloomies, studiously avoiding the gaze of the two or three men in attendance, I made my way over to get my book signed by Imogen herself. She is a tiny, tiny, miniature person, the kind of girl who makes everyone around her look and feel fat. She is single and 30 and loving it! She's even teaching a class at the Learning Annex to this effect. And of course it is the subject of her book.
"I'm recently single," I told her. "What is the best tip from your book?"
She looked at me with genuine concern, and began to speak in that concerned tone of voice British people have that is actually very comforting and usually accompanied by offer of tea. She seemed to be trying to restrain herself from patting me on my hand. Anyway, she told me I should not think at all about attracting men or trying to have a boyfriend and just focus on myself for right now. "I could have told you that," Nikola said under his breath as he took unflattering photos of Imogen squinching up her brown, trying to think of what to say next.
"Umm, I'm thinking of getting a dog! What's your opinion on that? Should a single lady have a pet? I already have a cat," I said.
"I used to have a cat named Smirnoff, and he was a very bad cat!" she said. "The neighbors must have thought I was an alcoholic, which I probably am—joke!—because every morning I would be running about the flat shouting "Smirnoff! Smirnoff!"
She paused to finish signing my book in pink pen. ("Dear Emily, Hope you enjoy. Have fun! Much love, Imogen")
"But a dog is a massive responsibility," she said. "I mean, I'm a bit more of a cat person. I feel a bit of an obligation to be, actually. You know, 'Cats' paid for my college education!"
Nikola and I laughed, but later mused about how uncharming it is when extremely rich people pretend to be ordinary. After all, the collected revenues from Imogen's father's musical 'Cats' could pay for the college educations of maybe an entire small country. Should one make self-deprecating jokes about one's wealth, or allow it to become the elephant in the room? This topic is not covered in The Single Girl's Survival Guide.