I went to Parson’s Green on Tuesday night. I’d not been before. In fact, the sum total of my knowledge of the place is that an old friend of mine from a reasonably privileged family used to work there in a “small art gallery”, which already tells you something about the area. It’s wedged between Fulham and Putney, and when I got off the District Line, I heard a man and his partner discussing the Oscars. “Actually, I thought that he put in a really bloody good performance,” said the man, in reference to someone or other, but the performance must have been good, as this man said it really bloody loudly.

You know you’re in a wealthy part of town when you see a branch of Fat Face (Covent Garden, Clapham) and a branch of Sweaty Betty (Hampstead, Kings Road, Canary Wharf) within a few yards of each other. Usually, clothing stores flatter their customers by having aspirational names – you know, Top Man. Chelsea Girl – but when all your customers waft in on a whiff of Sancerre, sashaying down the racks with consummate style and elegance, you can afford to call your shop Fat Face. Ask a fat person where they got their new sequinned top – they’re not going to say Fat Face or Sweaty Betty, are they, they’re going to say “Slimworld”, “Boutique De Thin”, or “I Smell Nice”. So, by giving their stores these ludicrous names, they instantly filter out all the misshapen riff-raff, and ensure that their clientele are not only the correct size, but also appreciate irony. Brace yourselves for their range of men’s stores opening this autumn, Beergut Benny, and Gap-Toothed Rapist.

The pubs and bars were good, though, even if I felt like a hideous imposter amid all the finery. One place on the New Kings Road is basically a house converted into a pub – entrance through a black front door, chandeliers, unrelenting upholstery and some f*cking antlers sticking out of the wall. One posh bloke appeared at the entrance, and started a conversation with the barmaid – calling her a barmaid seems wrong, somehow, heiress probably fits the bill better – he started a conversation with her, across the entire pub, while still closing the door behind him. You see, I’m not sure whether I enjoy the fact that I scuttle to the bar and then speak in a low voice, or whether I’d like to be the kind of person that booms expansively to announce my arrival. I suspect the latter. Just in case you thought that I was going to rally you all together for class war.

The White Horse, across the road, is called the Sloany Pony by locals, apparently. Hahahaha, ha, mmm. The landlord has done his best to peg back the mass invasion of excellent hairdos every evening by installing the biggest range of Belgian beers of any London hostelry, thus ensuring his clientele are an unholy mix of hooraying Fulhamistas and bearded CAMRA members. We rounded off the evening at a place called, hilariously, Amuse Bouche, a champagne bar where the bar staff were carefully trained to sneer at anyone who didn’t look the part. Needless to say, they smelled Tooting on our overcoats, and we were roundly sneered at. We sneered back, well, as much as you can sneer after paying £13 for 2 drinks.

I will be celebrating St David’s Day by repeating the performance in Fulham Broadway, if anyone fancies it.