MISS L. CERAND...

You see, this is the kind of thing that happens when Miss L. Cerand is in town. Jewels laid out on a chair, climbing out of the window to drink champagne, a room liberally scattered with big vases of hyacinths and a copy of Vile Bodies on the bedside table, a Ladurée Saint Honoré Rose-Framboise split in half with a hairpin. Not pictured: a bar in Claridges I never knew existed despite frequent visits, another bar in another hotel I'd never heard of in my own home town, where the white uniformed waiters make your martini on a silver trolley in front of you and announce gravely that this. is. an. organic. Sicilian. lemon. before peeling off a strip of zest. Oh, and there was the concert in the Royal chapel that hasn't been open to the public for 500 years, running up St. James's in evening dresses, a trip to the countryside, considering bringing back a Shetland pony that was for sale, but how? Dinners at the club, an auction, a painting won and Queen Henrietta's dwarf, Jeffrey who kept popping up. That's just a recap of when I was there: to read more on these adventures and more of Lauren's London tour (and if I may say, notes on how to live a life well) you must read her London Dispatches.