Maddox, Movida, Mexico

Work began at 10am, but I arrived at 830am, thinking that I was due at 9. To pass the time, I breakfasted on my New York Dolls coworker's McVities and made a Folgers Instant in the back room with some hot water and fresh milk. I've noticed that the labels always list "fresh milk" and I'm not sure what to make of it. If they have to advertise that a refrigerated dairy product is "fresh" then what are they compensating for?

An unwashed strawberry blond came in wearing an ancient parka and some filthy runners. I'm not used to seeing honest disparity after a month in Notting Hill. He was really hyped on the Del Tha Funkee Homosapien playing overhead and complimented us on our taste in music the way diners give their compliments to the chef. None of us remembered putting Del in the sound system, so we gave credit to my skinniest colleague, the one who wears jeans rolled up with a turtleneck tucked in and who was propositioned by a high ranking member of British parliament at an early age.

Filthy went on to explain how under appreciated Del is, except in LA which is a great city. One of the best he's ever seen in America or anywhere, and he's seen a few cities. I asked him when he planned to return and he didn't know. He's not welcome in the country because he was arrested for "looking like a guy with a criminal record who also happened to have my name. It didn't help that I had drugs on me at the time." He said he might sneak back in after a year's time, when he'd settled on a new identity. I must have had an incredulous look on my face and he explained that his friend had a similar problem being deported from Australia for ketamine trafficking. He changed his name and got a new bank account and passport and returned a year later as Andrew-Mark On-Ket. Clever.

I should have held my tongue when I joked about finding him a good spot along the river to cross from Mexico.


Coffee and orange juice for lunch. I met with one of the West End's busier promoters to hear his plans for a night sponsored by ... a chocolate manufacturer and a CGI programming firm. We'd scheduled and rescheduled this coffee for weeks and he had a choice of cappuccino and fresh squeezed laid out when I arrived. My coworkers always come back from lunch with stories of starters, mains and puddings, and they were yet again unimpressed with my culinary selections.

A samoyed sat nearby with a pram and an unattentive Notting Hill nanny. I don't really care for dogs but this one was essentially a giant white smiling cat, and I eyed it from a distance because I miss my pets.

Scrambled egg for dinner. Jo cooked, as usual, and I ran upstairs to fix my hair. On the way home I picked up a dress for the last-minute masquerade party in the West End that I had no mask for. I'd been eyeing a yellow silk strapless for a week, planning on picking it up for just such an occassion and somehow walked out with a black knife pleated halter frock cut to the knee. I think I justified a simple dress as a mask would overwhelm a stronger outfit. Anyhow, I haven't worn a dress that long since 2003 and I left it in a pile for the silk strapless aubergine that I'd worn to a cocktail club a few weeks before, still fiending for the jaundiced minidress in the shop window.

I hopped the bus into town in my glamourous kit with time to spare as I still hadn't acquired a mask and I had visions of cobbling something together with found items at the grocery store. An unctuous acquaintance who seems to sprint in West End circles agreed to bring a spare. He purchased it in Norfolk during his senior year for a Venician-themed party, which he regretably could not attend as his online erotica empire was busted by Scotland Yard the night before, and his parents grounded him for the weekend.

Coincidence and some well-timed text messages intervened at Regent and Argyll with the promoter, his girlfriend, a Columbian coffee trader and a model scout. We entered through the side door of some exclusive, unmarked members-only and descended into a lounge that can only be described as first class on an overnight Virgin Atlantic flight from New York to London. All light boxes and white leather and glowing strips of purple and orange along what would have been the skirting boards if places like this ever used non-synthetic materials.

My mask arrived and after conversation about vacationing in Monaco and Spain, we took our coats and took to the balmy streets of Mayfair. The great thing about London that everyone tells me and that I fully accept is that every district is a village of its own and you can walk from one place to the next like its a giant food court and you've decided that you're going to have both the Mexi fries and the A&W Teen burger for lunch. In the West End, all with some well-heeled friends, well-heeled shoes and a ladies' cigarette if you're smoking, the jetlagged-tourist-on-the-town look can be easily avoided.

Soon enough we were tucked into another white leather banquette with a glowing light box laid out with Moet & Chandon, watching a fashion show lit by "nouveau baroque" chandeliers and Kliegs. Posh Tim's latest girlfriend, a darling Swedish model, arrived in jeans, t-shirt and toque when everyone else was in fancy dress. While he and I seldom speak outside of night's out, I regularly trade numbers with his dates.

Finally, tired and hungry, I shared a black cab back to Notting Hill. I picked up a £2.50 kebab, said yes to all the toppings and scarfed it down on the way home, where I wearily wriggled out of my tiny dress and stepped into some Cowichan knits and a sense of normality. Beautiful.