Of course I don't hate you, Lia and your friends, Mousie, or in any way look down upon you. That nasty old cash-dispenser of my flatmate's is just being a big silly again.
I mean, I live in a large, loft-style creative commune in the most fashionable bohemian district of one of the most fashionable cities in the world with a dozen graduates of Oxford and Cambridge and you lot live in shabby little flats above grocer's shops in dull provincial cities with spotty talentless losers who barely got into ex-polytechnics.
I am an athletically good-looking, effortlessly stylish metropolitan Lesbian from an upper-middle class family in Oxford who now hangs out at the coolest clubs, bars and art galleries of the capital, and you are a bunch of chavvy-looking, over-made-up, immature slags from various filthy vulgar hell-holes where they still keep the coal in the bath who come up to London for a "girls' day out" every couple of months and teeter ridiculously around Chinatown on your six-inch heels clinging onto each other for support and having yourself photographed giggling outside newsagents.
What possible reason would I have to look down on you?
