“Thank god, it’s finally drying up!” So say the WhatsApp group chats pinging about the party classes. And, no, they are not talking about the weather.
While it has been wet old summer for most of London, the vanguard of glossy-skinned society freshers have been knee deep in a complementary-booze-soaked romp through fashion parties, to Wimbledon and Glasto, a string of the Cotswolds’ most stately of homes via Ibiza and back in time for a final slosh of tequila in the members-only back rooms of Koko.
