So there I was. Sipping a baby bottle of Moet through a straw at the Fifth Floor Harvey Nics, nibbling on (what else?) a spot of sushi and wondering why God made me six inches shorter and wider than everyone else in the room.
Yes, it was the Models One 30th birthday party, a celebration of physical freakiness and youthful beauty where anyone under 5' 10" was regarded as a dwarf. This bash was truly the apotheosis of people watching:the plunging necklines! The bottom-brushing backlines! The itsy bitsy waists! The whopping great cheekbones! And that was just the boys.
As with the best parties, there was a multi-tiered security system (mother's maiden name, favourite breakfast cereal, who scored the deciding goal in the 1928 FA Cup Final?), an official photo booth for the officially fabulous and an obscene celebrity turnout.
It fatigues me to list them all, but an abbreviated count included models Alex Wek and Karen Elson, Patrick Cox, Philip Treacy, Bob Geldof, Henry and Lili Dent-Brocklehurst, Bryan Ferry as well as grisly rockers Bryan Adams, and Roger Taylor. Yasmin Le Bon, looking outrageously beautiful, arrived with the docile Simon. For a moment they looked set to grace the conspicuously empty dancefloor (models being better at champagne drinking than dancing, I presume) but instead they pushed off to the bar where none other than Vinnie Jones was hanging out. What, "Hard man" Vinnie at a Models One party?! Six months ago he'd have been guest of honour at a Wimbledon karaoke evening and would have been grateful for it. But there, that's showbiz for you.
Meanwhile, as usual, the best fun was to be had in the loos. No doubt buoyed by the endless champers and martini cocktails, several leggy models made mincemeat of the absent Jerry Hall, proclaiming she "looked about ninety" and "was over the hill". There then followed much squealing with delight as the girls attacked each other with the Vivienne Westwood fragrance provided in the rest-room. Ah, the crazy world of fashion.
Yet more glam at the launch of Andrew Tucker's excellent The London Fashion Book at Teatro this week. More baby bottles of Moet, more beautiful people, and lashings and lashings of baldness (Baldness, it seems, is the new brown. Fashion pundits take note.)
Anyway, while all around him schmoozed, Andrew Tucker - conspicuously follicled as it happens - admitted he was petrified by the whole event.
His nervousness was no doubt exacerbated by the draconian atmosphere of Teatro. Unable to have our photo taken inside the restaurant ("They're so arsy in here!" he lamented), we left Zandra Rhodes, Stephen Jones, Simon Costin, Tristen Webber and Eveline Blanhik bustling for space while we grabbed a breath of fresh air (if such a thing exists) in Soho.
"I can't wait 'til this is over," bleated the poor lamb, obviously not a natural at self-promotion. Still, I dare say the book will do it for him.