The Sophist 15: in which Kate Moss ends all my woes

Someone once told me, when we were in this party in a warehouse in Hoxton, back when Hoxton used to be two worlds, one which had the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe and housing estates that ran in half mile stretches, and one which was made of fashionably edgy hangouts where artists got to drink and drinkers got to feel arty and gallerists painted white paint onto brick walls because purity of form and also hangovers - someone in that club told me that a supermodel had been in there, on another night, in the toilets that we were in, while we took a break from Bobby Gillespie DJing and a band with a swear word in their name jumping up and down on a makeshift stage in a crumbling room, and this supermodel had, but not when we were there, been lying in a toilet