Venetia Thompson

Just the idea of the Copenhagen summit is enough to fill me with dread. Not because I’m frightened of global warming or enforced vegetarianism, or because I’m worried that environmental evangelists are leading us up the garden path. But, truthfully, in case all the eco-awareness encourages more cyclists. London is under siege. They can’t be seen until they’re on top of you, can’t be heard, and can kill you instantly: bicycles are taking over and it’s got to the point where just the squeal of a bike break can induce in me a moment of sudden, heart-stopping panic. It’s difficult to trace the origins of my cyclophobia.

Venetia Thompson says that if you don’t mind slumming it for a bit, you can snap up an out-of-work banker or trader whose stock is sure to rise soon I’m back behind enemy lines in the Square Mile, thankfully nowhere near the trading floor I used to inhabit, but in a place nearly as terrifying: Coq d’Argent, the City restaurant synonymous with suicide attempts. Perfect backdrop then for a first date who, within five minutes, utters the immortal words: ‘You know, there is an upside to unemployment. Since being made redundant, I have finally been able to get around to focusing on my love life. This is my first date in years!

‘Well, I’ve got the lads an espresso machine — after all, none of us can afford coke anymore, how else are we going to stay awake?’ It was nice to hear that one City banker was putting his hand in his pocket and looking after his troops — they may not be getting bonuses, but at least his team were guaranteed a decent coffee. But even this little luxury may have to be confiscated. It simply doesn’t blend in with the new puritanical City landscape, where the amount of milk available in the canteen and what it can be used for is heavily restricted. Inter-dealer brokers — who spend their time schmoozing traders — are distraught.

Venetia Thompson, who has never taken the drug, was shocked to discover a stash in her house. What to do? Her friends’ response was a collective shrug as if it were nothing unusual It is said that in London, you are never further than ten feet from the nearest rat. It seems that, these days, the same might just as easily be said of cocaine. Recently, while gathering up my washing, I discovered an unfamiliar sock. This was immediately bizarre, as I recognise all of my socks; there are not many of them, they very rarely travel in matching pairs, and can usually be found lurking in dark corners of drawers next to a forgotten flight sock that I keep, just in case I decide to opt to prevent a DVT in just one of my legs next time I fly. Yes: I know my socks.

Bingo is a game that I have never really seen the point of — despite recent advertising campaigns attempting to market it as the new raucous ‘girls’ night out’ of choice. It was thus with trepidation that I climbed Home House’s grand staircase and entered one of their private rooms along with 30 other guests for a game of wine bingo. I was swiftly handed a glass of something light and fizzy, thankfully, and all images of fat, single, middle-aged Gala-dwelling women and their legs-11 disappeared. It was only when I reached for what from a distance looked like a macadamia nut in a round basket, but was in fact a bingo ball, that I remembered that I was there to play a game, and that I probably needed glasses.

It’s possible to get a reservation again at Scott’s. The City boys have well and truly left the building, and can now be found drowning their sorrows elsewhere, in dark corners of the West End and Chelsea, as far away from the prying eyes of the City as possible. ‘“Reduce your risk. Sell. Get flat.” But all I could think about was the school fees and the new kitchen, and how there’s just no recovering from this.’ I was looking into the pained eyes of a former master of the universe, who had until recently stared the credit crunch in the face and laughed. He was now on his sixth (house) whisky and mumbling incoherently about getting buried by Wachovia earlier that day.

Venetia Thompson says that the pneumatic model — banned from the key enclosures — is no more of a ‘chav’ than the punters who throng at these increasingly vulgar events ‘What would we do/ usually drink, usually dance, usually bubble/All I want to do is tell you I love you/ That’s when I start promising the world to/ A brand new girl I don’t even know yet/ Next thing she’s wearing my Rolex.’ The sun has gone down and thousands of open-neck pale-pink shirts, blazers, Ray-Bans, blonde highlights and surgically enhanced perma-tan breasts bounce along to a surprise performance by UK rapper extraordinaire Wiley, singing his recent hit ‘Wearing my Rolex’. It is well received. Arms are waved in the air.

Venetia Thompson says that the Prince’s Foundation for the Built Environment does work that nobody else can and constructs homes that buck current property market trends Robin Hood famously robbed from the rich to give to the poor, but I am certain that he never suggested that the poor should then be crammed into tower blocks like battery chickens in the name of Modernist architecture until they were finally stabbed to death in a deserted stairwell. There is nothing truly egalitarian about the ironically named Robin Hood Gardens in Poplar, east London — except the equality of squalor. It is no surprise that most of its 400 residents want the 1972 monstrosity torn down and replaced with something vaguely inhabitable. However — wouldn’t you know it?

Venetia Thompson contends with a broken Blackberry, teeth-whitening kits and cyclists Last weekend I discovered what it is like to be a small furry animal in its burrow, when in an effort to catch up on some sleep and do some work, I had refused to go out and instead sat steadfast in my living-room. I was subsequently hissed at through the window and then smoked out when a tramp decided to set fire to himself and my rubbish under the building late one night while banging maniacally on my bedroom window. Whether it was that same mischievous Romanian tramp Sarah Standing was troubled by last week I do not know, but I wouldn’t be surprised as Ebury Street is well within staggering distance. Thankfully the Met Police’s response time was superman fast.

Venetia Thompson dislikes the resignation she finds in the most quiescent of Russia’s Muslim states. But other republics will be less apathetic in the face of Moscow’s provocations Kazan, Tatarstan The 12-hour train journey from Moscow was a blur of vodka, of only visiting the bathroom in pairs for our own safety and, most frustratingly, of being told repeatedly to ‘calm down’ in Russian by our formidable escort, Natasha. As we got further away from Moscow the stops became littered with people holding miscellan- eous objects for sale, ranging from stuffed and live animals to general household clutter. A feeling of pronounced claustrophobia began to take hold; gone were the romanticised Russian train journeys and boundless steppes of 19th-century literature.

Tired of Euro-Sloane bores in Chelsea, Venetia Thompson tours the clubs of Harlesden, the UK’s ‘gun capital’, and experiences a world where a firearm is as normal a status symbol as a Chanel handbag or a Rolex watch would be in SW3 I am dancing slowly with a Portuguese friend to beautiful Zouk music from Cape Verde, sung in Creole. He suddenly throws me against the wall behind him and shoves me down towards the ground. One of my pearl earrings flies across the dance floor. The music has stopped, people are scrambling towards the safety of the now deserted DJ booth or running to get out of the club. There are screams and shouts of ‘Get down!’ Fights in clubs are scarcely unusual, alcohol-fuelled more often than not.

He is sending back a bottle of 1965 Croft because it ‘doesn’t taste right’. I know that the odds of it tasting identical to the bottle we just drank in Pétrus are slim to none even if we were sober. He is miffed at the lack of label and they bring back the cork. I exchange an exasperated look with the sommelier, who woefully nods at yet another example of an Essex wide-boy embarrassing himself, and quietly brings another bottle. Our clients, traders visiting from Germany, continue to puff on their cigars. The Essex boy is not a breed that most public-school girls from Devon often encounter.