I met up with Jenny in Mayfair last night, at an incredibly posh hotel. You think you know all the posh hotels in London – The Ritz, The Connaught, Claridges, that big row of ones opposite FInsbury Park and so on – but actually, these are nothing compared to the ones that lie quietly down the back streets of Mayfair, providing discreet and luxurious accomodation for those in the know. My first taste of this was when I had to write a piece for Time Out about trying to book a room in a posh hotel for me and a partner for just 3 hours; I’ll never forget Sebastian at The Hempel, although he’s probably forgotten me. Anyway, I walked into Browns on Albemarle street, and the concierge immediately cradled me in his arms and fed me a water biscuit. That kind of service. I had to wait for Jenny to emerge from the event she was attending, so I sat on a highly-polished bench, looking conspicuously scruffy. Twice I was asked if “sir is waiting for a table”, to which I had to resist the temptation to adopt the voice of John Hurt in The Elephant Man and say “No, I’m waiting for a human being.” Eventually Jenny came out, and asked someone where she might find her coat. A well-dressed female employee gestured down a corridor by gently uncoiling her arm in the correct direction; I half expected it to continue uncoiling for several metres and tap the cloakroom attendant lightly on the shoulder. On the way out, I walked past Naomi Campbell, who I would have chatted to about old times, had we had any old times, which we haven’t, we were always too busy.

I still have a major shoe problem. I’m holding out for a shoe that looks like a Camper, but comes with a significantly smaller price tag. To that end, I bought a vaguely suitable new pair from eBay for a piddling £14.99, just to keep my feet shod through the next few weeks. The shoes were, apparently, dispatched last Thursday, and they have still failed to show up. After emailing the seller to ask how she sent them – horse and cart, sedan chair, goat, who knows – she replied “I can assure you they were sent, and they will be with you any time. Once again I am sorry for the delay, however you will be delighted with the shoes when they arrive.” I don’t know why this made me laugh out loud. Probably the idea of being “delighted” at a pair of stopgap shoes that cost less than £15, coupled with her complete confidence in Royal Mail in squeezing the bastards through my letterbox. We’ll see.

By the way, does anyone forget how old they are? I do, constantly. I keep having to subtract 1971 from the current year and assess if I’ve had my birthday yet. This takes several seconds, and really ballses up any telephone-based security questions I might be asked. It sounds suspicious. I need a reminder. Maybe a badge.