Last night I briefly lived the life of someone with a far healthier bank balance than myself. At 7pm I was in the boardroom on the 5th floor of Fortnum and Masons, sampling fare from their newly launched Christmas range. Christmas? July? I'm afraid so. I'll let them off, though, as QVC probably had their first Christmas programme about 3 weeks ago, flogging cut-price decorations and telling you that it's NEVER too early to start shopping for Christmas. Yes it is. July is too early.

Anyway, there was a huge table, laden down with produce – figgy puddings drenched in rum, enormous sides of ham, a meat pie the size of a small tumble dryer, bottles of claret… Sadly – or perhaps fortunately – we weren't allowed to just tuck in; carefully measured portions of Christmas pudding were doled out on small plates, while we looked with horror at an enormous foie gras en croute, which apparently served between 8-10 people. “What, for a month?” I asked, my eyebrows located somewhere around my fast-receding hairline. “That's gout on a plate, right there,” said Jenny. The polite man from Fortnums could only concur. We sipped on champagne, and our glasses were refilled by poorly paid staff in very smart clothes. I felt like saying to them “Sorry about all this, y'know, me drinking champagne stuff, I'm not really meant to be here.” Nearby, a boy and a girl who looked like they'd stepped straight out of Stay Beautiful looked absent mindedly at a turkey, while canoodling. A marvellous place for a first date. “Er, I wondered if you'd like to come to the launch of Christmas produce at Fortnum and Masons on Thursday? Y'know, like, with me? I mean, no big deal, or anything, just wondered.”

We attempted to leave, but downstairs the doors were locked. No sign of security guards. It seemed for a moment that we were going to have to spend the night fending for ourselves in Fortnum & Masons food hall. Not particularly fraught with danger, I'll admit. Your problem would occur the next morning as you emerged from the building 3 times your normal size, stuffed to the gunnells with Belgian chocolate, only to be picked off by a police marksman leaning out of the window of the Ritz Hotel.

Next destination: The residence of the Peruvian ambassador. [To follow.]