Hotel Babylon

Saturday. 'Lunch' turns into afternoon drinking; turns into crashing a party. You know how it goes.

The Blonde and The Geordie bloke were due down for a friend's 30th party in Farringdon, so we decided to meet up for a brief, civilised lunch before they went off to the do.

It started off well, when they got separated on the Tube. Having met Geordie bloke at Farringdon station, where he looked bemused to be without The Blonde, we decided to do the natural thing and go to the nearest pub for a drink to wait. With a flurry of messages involving the words "tit" and "unsupervised" and a vocal greeting of "d*ckhead!" when she finally arrived, I knew it was going to be a fun afternoon. Mainly revolving around who's fault it was that they got separated.

We had the excellent idea of checking them into the hotel before we strolled to Smith's of Smithfields for a late lunch so we sauntered up to the gorgeous Charterhouse Sq to Malmaison. Now, The Blonde and I had been here before for corporate stuff, and noted the slightly-too-dark interior which makes you feel a bit like you're hanging out in the day in a place where the ladies come on a menu. It is tres chic, but definitely leaning towards the dungeon-in-the-basement vibe. As The Blonde sensibly checked in, Geordie and I clocked a massive painting hanging opposite reception.... Of a man and woman locked in a clinch, explicity showing him with his hand down her pants.

We looked at each other. Having done an MA thesis on perversion in Postmodern art, I'm no stranger to the transgressive artwork. But not in public places.

Me, quietly: "Bit risque for a hotel foyer?"

Geordie, louder: "Aye, a bit rapey?"

I was not expecting this reaction and of course snorted with laughter, very mature. We got berated by The Blonde for being like "children" and "we couldn't be taken anywhere". We pretty much agreed. The situation wasn't made better when all three of us went across reception and up to the room to dump their bags. Plus I was wearing leather riding boots and a trench coat, goodness knows what reception thought.

We trooped back down, and made our way to Smith's. Officially my new favourite place. Downstairs is casual and relaxed, full of obligatory media types and self conscious haircuts, with a stripped-back industrial interior. I was slightly excited and allowed myself to hope that Masterchef's John Torode would be around somewhere in his restaurant, but alas, no sight. I'll forgive his absence though, since our waiter was hot.

We had some excellent Sauvignon Blanc, The Blonde had a posh sausage sandwich, I had the homemade burger and Geordie enjoyed steak and eggs. I say enjoyed, I mean muttered "f*ck off my eggs!" as The Blonde ruined both his yolks with deliberate stabs of a chip. I had drink envy when Geordie ordered us G&Ts, while he had a delicious orange vodka. Worth going back for alone.

By this point, The Blonde had wangled me an invite to the party, and since I don't see her nearly enough, I of course was delighted to accept. So we went back to the hotel to get ready. Perpetuating how odd this looked, three of us dandering through reception, clearly a bit tipsy, we started to get a bit embarrassed.

But no, there was worse to come. Unthinking, we ordered a round of drinks to enjoy while I hung out and they got ready for the party. At this point, Geordie's in the shower, singing very happily. The Blonde has underwear out on the bed, and the both of us are doing our make up. I'd chucked a ten pound note on the bed to cover my drink on their room tab. The the door goes and it's a waiter with our drinks.

Cash on the bed. A man singing loudly in the shower. Underwear out. Two girls doing their faces. It wasn't even worth saying "It's not what it looks like." Whoops.

All this before we'd even arrived at the party. Luckily, I didn't go back to the room with them afterwards. Then reception would have had something to talk about.

Suffice to say the party was excellent, cool place, nice people and plenty of vodka tonics. I blame The Blonde for the tequila shots, and today I am very glad we declined the Gaschamber sambuca shooter.

I'm pretty sure The Blonde is dreaming about getting into her beloved JLS hoodie today, and ordering some Dominos.