I have been away for a while. And I’m scared. My once unfaltering loyalty to London is in jeopardy. I love LA.

I never thought I would write those three little words, imagining as I did the city in my mind as one filled with vacuous, fakely vivacious Alicia-Silverstone-in-Clueless types and roads that go on forever, navigable only via Escalade or Monster Truck.

Whilst that stereotype did pertly present itself at certain occasions (and the roads really do go on forever), I found LA to be fun, friendly and a fantastic base from which to fantasise about a life unlikely ever to be led.

This might have had something to do with our well-connected and well-known contacts out there. But I also think there is a general sense of ‘the dream’ still waiting to be grabbed, still waiting for you to spot on the shelf and carry it away in your over-sized clutch to a life lived happily-ever-after in an over-sized villa. This feeling of hopefulness feeds into the nightlife, where everyone wants to talk to everyone in case they’re someone who happens to be someone. Which makes ‘smoking small-talk’ an Oscar-worthy art in itself, and very entertaining to a cheeky Londoner like myself.

There was a tendency for tequila shots to be swapped faster than business cards, so I felt dizzily at home in the many clubs which close at the crazily cosy time of 2am…This early closing time had one advantage – I got up early enough to spend the whole day trawling the vintage shops which are amongst the best I have ever visited. A sequinned Catherine Malandrino dress I purchased (this season – not even nearly vintage, but at £60 who cares?) recouped my flight expenditure all by its sparkly self.

Other highlights included meeting Robin Williams at a dingy comedy club, where the clientele had paid $1 entrance and had no idea the infamously funny comic would be performing. Neither did we – hence our late entrance accompanied by shouts from Mr Williams of ‘It’s Britney and Paris’ as me and my blonde friend ran red-faced to our back-row seats.

Showcasing said Malandrino dress at the LA premiere of David Schwimmer’s film Run Fat Boy Run, starring Simon Pegg and Thandie Newton, was a red-carpet experience marred only by the consumption of a naughty number of hot-dogs, which ensured my fast-eating friend and I had plenty of room to ourselves at the glitzy after-party at Les Deux. We didn’t let this stop us from dancing the night away to UK artist Tom Baxter’s acoustic delights, albeit with hot-dog breath accompanying our two-step turns.

Chancing across legendary actor Sir Peter O’Toole at the Four Seasons hotel bar and sharing a rhubarb martini (and plenty of Marlboros) with him was something else that seemed possible only in this land of endless possibilities.

So now I’m home. It’s not hot, it’s not cheap and it’s certainly not last orders at 1.30am. But it is London, and somewhere between Chelsea Bridge and ‘Shameless’, I knew I was glad to be back.

I will be back on the capital’s dance-floors faster than you can say ‘psyched’, so be sure to join me for more soirees in the big smoke soon…

Filed under: Big Smoke Soirees