I've joined a club. One of those nice, expensive, centre of town places. Lee's convinced I'm doing it so I can brag about it. There may be something in that.
On the other hand, it is somewhere lovely in SoHo where you can always get a seat and the MaiTais are great. Plus you're guaranteed to stand on a celeb.
I could be really boring here and wax lyrical about how joining a club is about the urge to better yourself, to overcome social inadequacy with a bit of cash and cocktails. Or I could just point out it's got a nice roof garden.
Anyway, having joined it, I'm a bit sheepish about it all. I'm not one of those suave people who smugs "Meet me at my club. Your name will be on the door." I just can't get away with it. It's behaviour for people who iron their shirts.
Took bicycle boy there for our date. Only after The Yard turned out to be crowded. Bicylce boy is called Matt and trains nurses in how to use Microsoft Word. He's got an endearing air of naivety about him - one he's reacquired, he assures me. He's already bored of London and has moved to the country. And it just seemed wrong dragging him into a posh club in a whole "Sleep with me, I'm swanky" way. Give me a few months to get used to it then I'll be dragging them off the dancefloor with a stick.
Anyway, I needn't have worried. Matt looked around the spacious bar, discretely filled with media types flicking back their hair. He settled himself down in a big leather chair. "Is this the BBC bar?" he asked.
I barely even hesitated. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it is."