I took Jenny out for her birthday. Well, it's the least I could do, really, under the circumstances. The circumstances being that it was her birthday, and she had taken me out for my birthday.

First stop: the Purple Bar at The Sanderson hotel on Berners Street. Incidentally, I only know one person with the surname Sanderson, and he works on Berners Street! How about that for a co-incidence? Good job he doesn't actually work at the hotel, or my tiny mind would explode. Anyway, this particular bar is open to residents only, but Jenny had an “in” with the PR which would allow us to breeze in, casually order a Martini or two and delight in our opulent surroundings. Of course, what happened was that we got there, and our name wasn't on the list, so a rude woman denied us entry, despite us dropping all the right names and threatening her with imminent redundancy. So we had to go and sit with the plebs in the Long Bar. Look at this sorry bunch.

This shot doesn't reveal quite how many hair-tossing, manicured, supple lovelies there were hanging around, seeking out monied company. It was amazing. I'm attracted to places like this rather like Ignatius Reilly is attracted to his local cinema in Confedaracy Of Dunces (which I'm re-reading at the moment.) Equal parts horror and revulsion, while secretly enjoying it immensely.

The bill arrived, and the crafty bastards left a big gap for a service charge on the slip, which I signed, and which was then whisked away to reveal that they'd already charged me 12.5% service charge. Common mistake. I should be more careful, especially in a place where a bowl of pickled olives sets you back six quid.

We were running late for dinner, so we had to jump in a cab. I'd booked a table at J Sheekeys, renowned fish restaurant off St Martin's Lane, the kind of place you have to book weeks and weeks in advance. I'm terrible at keeping secrets, so I surprised myself at having kept the location of our dinner date quiet for a whole month. “You'll see,” I said, resisting the temptation to drop hints and ruin everything. Jenny got in the cab, I murmured “Uh, just off St Martin's Lane” to the cabbie through the front window, and off we went. As we swung out onto Charing Cross Road, the cabbie turned around and said “So, you going to J Sheekys?” Bastard. I only had 2 more minutes to keep it a secret, and the cabbie blows the whole thing. Fortunately I saw the funny side, laughing it off, and then steadfastedly refusing to give him a tip.

At home later, I presented the dear lady with her birthday cake. Nothing went wrong with that. The candles were blown out, and it was delicious.