Luxe & Love
It’s early Sunday morning and I’m standing outside Kepos Street Kitchen trying to juggle my hot latte, my house keys and my iPhone.
My keys slip out of my grip and fall onto the side walk, I manage to scoop them up but accidentally press the master button on my phone which activates Siri aka the electronic she-devil.
“What can I help you with?” she yells from the depths of my smartphone, my brain pounds against my head from one too many red wines the night before.
“How about an extra hand?” I mumble under my breath.
“Alright here’s what I’ve got” she says almost condescendingly.
A Wikiapeadia definition of ‘hand’ flashed up on my screen:
I ask for a hand and all I get is lemurs. This feels like the story of my life right now. I’m constantly asking questions but no matter how hard I try I can’t get the answers I want.
I’ve asked the girls to stay several times, but the answer is always no, we love you but we have to go.
Ms P is my saving grace.
I get home and make the stupid mistake of trying to open our temperamental front door while still holding the coffee. As the door finally jolts open the paper take away cup crushes in my hand and hot liquid spills everywhere.
“Shittttt” I moan throwing everything on the ground like a dramatic 12 year old. Ms P hears me and walks down the corridor to my rescue.
“What the fuck” she says shaking her head and kneeling down to collect my keys.
“Thanks, where are the girls?” I ask bending down to help her.
“I think they went to the travel agent.”
Again this is not the answer I want to hear.
We walk into the living room and I sit down on the couch. I’m defeated and it’s only 10’oclock.
“Go have a shower and get dressed we’re going to get coffee with a side of love.” Ms P says pulling me up.
I agree to the coffee but as for the love, well I think I need more than just a side serve right now.
20 minutes later we’re dressed and waiting out the front of The Dirthouse. I turn to head in the direction of Crown St when Ms P leans forward and waves down an approaching cab.
“Get in grumpy” she says to me as the Uber car pulls over along side us.
“We are going to have breakfast somewhere new remember.”
“Where?” I ask feeling slightly annoyed that we can’t just go to one of our usual places
“Queen Street Woolarah thanks” she tells the driver.
For the millionth time this month I receive another wrong answer. Great, we’re off to have breakfast with a bunch of assholes.
It doesn’t take me long to realise that I’m the only asshole around.
The Luxe coffee cup gets hashtaged more by Sydneysiders on a Saturday/Sunday morning than a Woolarah housewife visits The Brow Bar in a lifetime (thats a lot). In fact a morning coffee at Luxe is somewhat of a ritual for many of Woolarah’s wealthy residents.
We are are neither wealthy nor residents but in the name of adventure and good caffeine hit Ms P decides we would be the next coffee lovers to hashtag #luxesysdney on this cool Winters morning.
If you like people watching this is the perfect place for you! As we arrive we are asked to put our name on a list and wait with the rest of the Australia’s next top model contestants. Prada, Givenchy, 3.1 Phillip Lim, Givenchy. Each girl is dressed to the nines (70% sports luxe) and is accompanied by her favourite designer handbag of the moment. My YSL and I have had quite the love/hate relationship (to be explained later in the blog) but today she acts as my protective armour as a handsome male waiter finally allocates us a seat between a group of little girls with baby chinos and some other privileged locals.