Cecily: You have an increasing fanbase. People enjoy Charles’ romantic cynicism.
Charles: I’m blushing… If that was the sort of thing I’d do…which as you know, I don’t.
symonne torpy
Vinnie, on unicorns.
Vinnie: Give me a unicorn and I’ll sell it to a boucherie.
Cecily, on literary devices.
Cecily: I have created whole characters out of hyperbolic metaphor, and written of kaleidoscopes of butterflies without the need for any metaphor at all.
Two friends, on vernacular.
Vinnie: You’re gay (that’s the expression Americans use when they cannot comprehend something).
Cecily: You’re straight (that’s the expression we queens use when we know exactly how to describe somebody).
Cecily, a Christmas story.
Cecily: I wanted a toy unicorn. I had an inside joke about one with my lover Yves, and I wanted to give the unicorn to him for Christmas. I announced my desire to find one rather publicly. Jonathan loved me so much he haunted every shop in Paris on Christmas Eve to find me that unicorn. He didn’t know why I wanted it, just that he could give me something I wanted, and that he could make me smile.
He found that unicorn and bought it for me for Christmas. It showed up under my tree all glittering and shining via beautiful guilt-laced adoration. And now I have it. And it was always intended for Yves.
Two friends, over lunch.
Charles: Ever since I became a lawyer I’ve had a sense of entitlement over cross examining people.
Cecily: I cross examine everybody despite my status as a professional social butterfly.
Delilah, to Cecily.
Delilah: So, brother, I’ve been shook the fuck up. You must be Jesus, the devil, or some kind of prescient energy force that transcends the need for physical form but comes to humans in the form of a slightly manic, dry-witted succubus.
Two friends, on seafood.
Cecily: A vagina is sometimes called a clam.
Raj: And there’s me thinking clams are called clams and vaginas are called vaginas.
Two friends, on Paris afternoons.
Christian: It’s a lovely afternoon. Let’s go to Place Saint Catherine, to the café with the flirty waiters. Do you know the one I mean?
Cecily: I shall take a punt and guess the café, or stroll around the square until you arrive to guide me to this font of hotness.
Delilah, on Wilmot.
Delilah: Women love John Wilmot. Trouble is, I am not a 17th century rake. I’m a tiny female something-o-path with no desire to charm women out of their drawers.
thedailymails 