The Feaster Bunny

To escape the concern that my late twenties see me rather stale and predictable in my ways, I occasionally seek out a weird and wonderful experiences.

Mostly, they end up being rather shit.

In fact, the most exciting thing about them is the telling, the little brag, the 'You'll never guess what we're doing!"

But then you just end up intimately pressed against a man wearing a wig and make-up, in a hot booth, being told that you have elegant ankles.

Have I got ahead of myself here?

Maybe a little.

I convinced Ginger Beard that we should attend the Harvey Nichols Feaster Egg Hunt.

First, we stood in one of the shop's many entrances for fifteen minutes, whilst actors (see below) told us how pretty we were.

 

Now, I like compliments, but it was intense, and Ginger Beard grew increasingly upset with their lack of interest in his outfit. We didn't like it when they cooed over us, but we really didn't like it when they lavished their attention on others. I was once more reminded of the horror of sibling rivalry.

After the bizarre intro, we followed the faux French parade up four sets of escalators, encouraged to freeze like mannequins. I was itching to trash the place. The sales pitch was that you could manically run around the store in pursuit of the Bailey's easter egg, akin to a posh Supermarket Sweep. I've never felt comfortable in Harvey Nichols, so I thought that I could comfortably destroy it under the guise of playful fun.

No such luck.

We partook in a series of unfinished parlour games. I approached 'Musical Chairs' with a level of aggression I'd never possessed as a child. I didn't know what the prize would be, but I was willing to kill for it. I was ecstatic to get down to the final three, only to be clapped and told that we were all winners.

All winners?

Even a five year old in a sack race can deal with the brutality of being proclaimed the winner or a loser.

Having said that, I'd of happily accepted the same prize, dealt to all three. But we got nothing, and the rage building inside of me took me back to a vicious Pog battle many years ago.

 

Oh sweet, sweet Pogs, how I miss thee.

 

 

 



ANYWAY

Then a man took me into a booth and firmly closed the curtain.

It's not the kind of event I'd typically try and pull at, but when you've got it, you've bloody got it son.

So I went with it.

We took it in turns to pick out folded cards, concealing compliments. When my turn came, it was clear he was playing a hilarious joke.

"You have a beautiful complexion."

Thanks to harsh changing room lights, the fact that my skin resembled that of a thirteen year old acne ridden chump, was further on show. I bet it didn't say that on the card. Just like being back at school.

Where was my Mum?

I needed her, and she wasn't there.

THANKS MUM.

We tried to make friends when we sat down for the six course feast. Because in London, you can instantly become friends with anyone, talking about all the fantastically cool things you're up to.

No one wanted to talk to us.


I feel quite bad, because the actors were great, and so was the food, but my innate awkwardness restricts me from enjoying most things in life. And frankly my attempts to be the kind of person who's happy to go with the flow, leave me an adrenaline riddled wreck. All that said, it was a truly charming evening!

I'm sure normal people would've had a fabulous time.

I found their blogs, and they really did.

This is why I don't tend to write reviews.