Tonight will be my second shift of the second week, and so far it's looking relatively rosy. The girls are fabulous (obviously), our inspectors are amazing . . . ly tolerant (and pretty damn super human into the bargain!), the outfits are, well, tight, badly-fitting and uncomfortable. On the whole then, not too bad at all - although I have very little concept of time anyway, so working crazy night shifts is deeply confusing!
Perhaps I should elaborate on the much discussed, covetted and contentious Bunny suits; they look incredible. Even I can't stop staring at the girls in them. Made of parachute silk we croupiers are of the classic black variety, whereas Salvatore's lovely cocktail ladies don steel, and the hugely hard-working valets are easy to spot in cherry red. The ears adjust to reflect our moods (happy bunny, tips-please bunny, scared bunny, knackered bunny etc. The long-legged Casey has perfected confused bunnny), and the tail is infinitely touchable. Sometimes I find that I just stand stroking my own tail at the table! I'm not at all happy that it's made of Marabou feathers, although I was assured that they were 'gathered' ethically. Hmmm.
The problem is not the suits themselves - it is the fact that in spite of numerous fittings, the majority do not fit. The poor on-site seamstress has truely got her work cut out for her. I love wearing the suit - there is something so wonderfully surreal about standing at an elegantly dressed roulette table, playing this complicated game that looks so glamorous but is so clear cut, precise and darned mathmatical, with pretty little chips in a multitude of colours, aiding ladies and gents (sic) fritter away thousands in the middle of the night - on what is fundamentally just complete chance - all whilst dressed as a giant rabbit.
Whilst it was never the obvious career choice for an ethically minded, free-thinking vegetarian with 1st Class Honours in Linguistics, who has travelled the world and once applied to be an MP, being a Playboy Bunny is allowing me to follow my dreams, get my film produced, my play staged and my voice heard. But perhaps the Eff Off Hef feminists would prefer that I waited tables for an impoverised five years or so, like the rest of London's artistically inclined youth.