Pete (in his wheelchair): My feet are fucking duct taped to my footrests because they’re broken, but I got into Westminster Abbey for free.
Alexander, on work.
Alexander: I think I am taking a job with Greenpeace. This is going to be an anecdotal goldmine.
Cecily, on Perrier.
Cecily: One wonders why a Perrier Menthe never fully fits its glass. In the beginning, you pour half your Perrier into the mint cordial, disturbing the green beneath. Agitate. It’s slightly too sweet, but that’s ok, you reason. Soon you will add more water. But by the time you do, you end up with a drink more or less pale and missing and you’re desperately sad. You question the very foundations of your existence.
One can find an existential crisis in the darndest of places.
Cecily, on accommodational struggles.
Cecily: I wanted a cat, but my new lover wants to rear butterflies wild on Tasmanian eucalypts in his apartment… So, I’m getting a Singapore airport instead.
Cecily, leading the count into love.
Cecily: A poet speaks not of time but of moments.
Carlo: I would like to be your moment. Once.
To Cecily.
Carlo: Everybody knows you. You are like a public garden.
Two friends, on the balm of missing intellect.
Alexander: I feel that you need to have an affair with a good looking, impoverished dullard. It does wonders for the sublimated insecurities. I speak from a wealth of experience.
Cecily: I can’t stand to be in the company of dullards. I have a mere 2’30” for each of them. Maybe less.
Cecily and Alexander, on reality.
Alexander: I need a wealthy man on his deathbed who has recently discovered his homosexuality, and has in the process become estranged from his many children and ex-wives.
Cecily: You can have my second husband. When I have one.
Alexander: I am assuming at that point both of us will be relatively well known, and so I vote that he has a torrid affair with me, and we split the press, leaving him to evanesce into social oblivion. Plan?
Cecily, on playing Cecily, constantly.
Cecily: He is in love with me; wrote love letters, of broken dreams and dead sisters and whisky irony and French poverty. He delivered orange juice and sweet meats to my door and then did not even ask to be let in. He is convinced I am going to marry him. One day. Of course, I drank the juice. I ate the sweet meats.
Alexander: Do you feel like a horrible human being? I am by no means saying that you are, but my own morbid curiosity demands that I ask.
Cecily: No. I do not. But I feel somewhat horrible for not feeling horrible. Somehow, all of the men who have sapped from me – stared at me, touched me, taking nothing but pleasure and leaving me as a shell – have validated this decision on my part. They are the portraits that have escaped the attic of my teenage imaginings and wander about the streets carrying my guilt. For it is they that have created me. And I am but a beautiful and reluctant monster who has become everything that her superficial fantasies of youth demanded. With none of the necessary detail to live a true life.
Cecily and Alexander, on “the help”.
Cecily: My life is driven by moments of confidence wherein I score free oysters and cab rides and jewels and trips to Florence, and moments of complete inadequacy which I fill with purchased luxury like €25 Bloody Marys at Le Meurice and €7 cappuccinos at the Westin and house cleaners and dry cleaning. Gratuitous spending buoys me. But today, my house cleaner, for whom I’ve been waiting in squalor two days to arrive, cancelled. Egad! I need a small maid that will clean behind me continuously.
Alexander: Fleur Volpe has that. Her maid lives in the chambre de bonne above her ten bedroom flat and she cleans eight hours a day. I only saw her once and she looked mortified at having been acknowledged.
thedailymails 