#cool

The first stop in my totally climate inappropriate garb was the St Martin Lane's Hotel in Covent Garden to meet @posh_bombshell, fellow Australian also visiting London, whose digs contrasted quite starkly with mine.
At this point I need to point out that my accommodation, although cute, was a very humble rental apartment in a former housing commission district in Westminster. A strangely quiet area, peopled by the very poor, the very posh and the political.
I was an alien all fronts.
But the best dressed by far.
The St Martin's Lane Hotel is currently the zhuzzhiest hotel in London.
Designed by Philippe Starck, the hotel lives up to the designer's name.
But it did provide a cool sanctuary from the buzz and the heat outside.
It is right in the heart of the West End.
And @posh_bombshell, although Aussie, is the ultimate West End Girl.
Tall, blonde and statuesque.
Swathed in designer fabrics.
And dripping in Hermes jewellery.
The only woman I know who manages to glide in 6 inch Louboutins.
She bent down gracefully to double kiss me.
Greeted me with: "Shall we do a line of coke, darling?"
It was 11 30am.
"Sure, doll".
That'll get the temazapan out of my system.
So we took the soundless elevator back to her microscopic although perfectly appointed room.
"Shit, doll" I said, "You're paying a lot per cubic metre for this!"
"I know, darling" she responded "but I'm spending a lot of time here during the day recovering, so the pound per hour rate is actually very good! And there's lots of stainless steel. Which saves us from having to do it off the loo."
This as she's laying out lines the length and thickness of her pendulous earrings.
"A most important detail" I concur. Snort.
"Good stuff isn't it, darling?" Snort.
"Amaaaazing, doll." Snort. "Where'd you score this so soon after getting here?"
"Some Russian guy in the bar." Snort. "Wanted to shag me of course, darling. But I wouldn't let him. I'm not sure if he realised I took his drugs".
At this point I suffered a mild panic attack at the thought of a posse of Russian gangsters bursting into the room.
Killing me.
Assaulting her.
And taking the coke back.


Possibly drug-induced.
Not helped by having these thoughts in a claustrophobic space.
I suggest we leave.
"Lunch?" asks @posh_bombshell.
"I'm not really hungry anymore, doll."
"We don't actually have to eat, darling. But I know this gorgeous little place in Chelsea. Apparently Wills and Kate used to go there all the time! Maybe we can find ourselves a couple of princes as well."
So with images of royal weddings in our heads, and a bag of coke in @posh_bombshell's Prada clutch, we set sail for Tom's Kitchen.






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