It just isn't a night out if there's not a pretty boy, and I found Mark. We were all lolly-gagging around when I spotted him. I asked Mr. Astor, "Doesn't that poor boy look like he doesn't know a soul in this place? Shall we invite him to join the hooliganism?" With the affirmative reply not even dry on the back of my neck, I strolled over and invited him into the fray. He was Mark from Munich, leaving the next day, and just the sweetest thing.

Twist co-owner, Joel Stedman, clearly saw the white writing on the wall as temperatures continued to drop into the upper 50's (tundra weather to us), but my compliments were all for his faithful employee, Mica, for bringing chain mail back into high society. I haven't seen it at formal functions since The Knights Templar were still sending invitations out; Good Boy, Mica.

I entered these two into The Harry Winston Fight-To-The-Jeweled-Death match knowing full well who would win. It seems so unfair to know who the winner always will be. But if looks could kill alone, the one without the fur might have had a chance. (And, I should have taken a clearer photo, but Henrietta came with her own silver goblet rimmed in diamonds; girls, it don't get better than that!)