There are certain parties that one might imagine town mice go to all the time, but, in fact, like hurricanes, hardly ever happen. However, I got to go to one last week: Hardy Amies’ party to thank its regular couture customers (of which, I might add, I am not one). Held in the new nightclub Amika, which used to be a dodgy wine bar, frequented by the hacks of The Mail on Sunday (of which, I may as well add, I was one), it is now terrifyingly fashionable.

The first room is high and black, with dark mirrors, black laquered bar and walls, black glass chandeliers and black glass tables. En suite to this is a cool, glaringly white room with white leather banquettes, white glass chandeliers and the occasional orchid. The party was peopled by women d’un certain age in high necked green silk and young, thin, long legged, chain smoking models in couture. Having downed two extremely strong cocktails of lime green liquid and looked at the reflections of the women in the black lacquer, I decided my time was up. My friend and I burst out into the early evening sunshine and made for the nearest fish and chip shop for a quick, piping hot dose of reality.