Thursday circuits

Art opening at B Store in Saville Row with the model scout, some architecture previews in Brick Lane and a light installation in Old Street with a Portuguese graphic designer.

I love Thursday evenings best of all. As long as you're dressed and sociable, the city seems yours for the taking. All the galleries are open and they're flooded with free drinks, snacks and fashionable people talking about fashionable things and how tiresome being fashionable is and what's going to be fashionable next and how they know the next big thing (and they must introduce you sometime... can they have your number?).

Bold face names

Spent the day at home in a pair of old jeans and a zip up hoodie, instant messaging with a drum and bass DJ who performs in full face paint and a tuxedo. We met under the tenuous pretence of Joanna travelling with his unanimously loathed brother for a short period in India. We traded notes on the comparative values of two- and four-ply cashmere and discussed our weekend plans (pancakes for me, high-paying party for him) and for the afternoon, I lived vicariously through the successes of a 6'3" Shoreditch turntablist who smacks remarkably of the singer Meat Loaf.

Cancelled my credit cards following the robbery. Jo reported our stolen goods on my behalf. The two policemen at the station were comparing pictures of themselves on Facebook when she arrived and it reminded me of hiding out in the back of the art gallery at home when my coworker and I would while away our shifts on social networking sites and YouTube.

In reviewing my summary of the worst night of my life, I regret to note an omission in the evening's description. While I originally began the evening with posh Tim and his Swedish girlfriend, I forgot to mention his ever-present and ambiguous associate, a leery Indian friend who had traded his lace-up flared capris from the Cavalli party for a lovely pair of stonewashed high-waisted flared jeans and a red raw silk henley. Also, that evening I threw up in a stranger's hat in the VIP room while Will I Am of the Black Eyed Peas looked on.

Watch where you wake up

To sum:

I abandoned my visiting friend from home to attend the West End bon voyage of the flannel-wearing Jew with the Audio Bullys booked on the decks.

I wore a black American Apparel dress with black tights and structural heels, a pair of plimsolls and a toothbrush in my bag and high hopes hammering on my heart.

I arrived to find the Swedish model wracked with news of posh Tim's recent indiscretions, my crush wearing a denim shirt and an unknown girl as an accessory, and magnums of Grey Goose in the VIP.

I left after several unaccounted hours of distress and drunkenness, stumbling into Oxford Circus with nothing but my leather jacket, having been robbed of mine and Joanna's wallets, my keys, bus pass, cell phone, camera, mp3 player, Double Mint and any sense of security I had grasped at over the previous month.

Eventually I found myself several kilometres away, denying sleep in a corner of an ill-reputed neighbourhood whilst awaiting sunrise and sobriety. Jumped the barrier at the Underground station as soon as it opened and hitched a ride into W12 to wait on my front steps for three hours until someone awoke to let me in.

By noon, I swore never to drink Grey Goose again and cried into my cocoa until I fell asleep until late the next day.

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.

Roberto Cavalli

Have already settled into a short-term flat outside Notting Hill with a weekly maid and two floors of high ceilings, wide windows and skylights. Turned down a job at a club in Camden as the owner admitted that he wanted to kill himself during the interview, and took a retail job in Portobello instead. Drank at one of Prince Harry's favoured clubs and attended a party in Mayfair hosted by Roberto Cavalli, who poured my champagne as I beamed in my Johnson Street shoes and dress.

Celebrity sightings abound (Liam Gallagher, Kelly Rowland, Nigel Barker, Nole Marin, the Geldoff girls, Agyness Deyn, Sienna Miller and Spandeau Ballet so far) and I finally found a Jewish-looking AA hoodie and leather jacket in the crowds at Movida, the red carpet and paparazzi-covered club that we've been invited to more often than we understand.

I don't want to admit that I'm overwhelmed by all that has happened in the two weeks that we've been in town. It all began on our third night in London when I'd slept off my jetlag and wanted to see the city. I had heard of Yo Yo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, so Jo and I dolled up and set out, only to be intercepted by a posh boy named Tim inviting us to a party. When we arrived, we found our hostess was the daughter of a lord and lady, the guests all drove Ducatis and there were designer shoes and chocolates everywhere. Since then, our Knightsbridge catalyst has brought us everywhere and introduced us to everyone who can help us start our lives here.

I remember telling Jo (the novice celebrity gossip fiend) not to worry; I'd find us some glamourous adventures during our four months in London. It seems it's already begun!