The dress code was simple: wear what you like. No ties, jacket not essential. You choose. And we all did.

Fortunately, a blend of position, reputation and tariff meant that those who did brave one of the coldest Friday nights of the year didn't let the side down.

When I moved to the East End to be near the City, it became a ritual to escape to Cornwall to be near the sea.    

So it was with just a tinge of irony that the first person I met when I decided to head to this eponymous five-star country estate was one of the most famous EastEnders in the world.

Doc Martin, has done for Port Isaac what Rick Stein has done for Padstow, well almost. Certainly, locals have seen more visitors on its steep winding streets since the cult TV series began. And what was once a harbour town too inaccessible for many has become a must-see on any visit to the area.

But is what they see on the small screen anything like the reality that is life in North Cornwall?

A stone's throw from arguably the most spectacular beach in Britain sits a hotel that shares its name. But while Bedruthan Steps the beach is a spectacular feat of nature, its namesake is an altogether more low-key and unfussy family retreat.

I'd been on board all of 50 minutes - and there I was doing the conga: like an aunt at a wedding, hands on the hips in front and filing out through doors and rocking along corridors.

We were all at it; more than a hundred of us jigging our way out on to the open deck to grab a muster moment under the lifeboats. It was a drill of course, not some welcome aboard ritual.

After a few days in the sun, there are three words guaranteed to bring you back to earth harder than a 747 with a blowout: Cold, Rain ... and Luton. The pilot told us to expect all three, in that order, as a wobbly budget jet that seemed to shudder in sympathy, broke through the clouds over Bedfordshire to the sound of trolleys being stashed and air crew strapping themselves in.

Ten minutes later, a handful of Brits and a few well-fed Italian families trudged their way against a spitty cross-wind smudging the mascara of the hostess trying to smile us through to Arrivals.

From a window table in the Bistro, I watched an imposing-looking off-roader pull into the mini lay-by. Two equally imposing blokes got out and exchanged pleasantries with passers-by.

"That's security," said a waiter. "We are a hotel and we like to keep it that way."

That was probably why, on the first Friday of 2010, I was able to emerge later to enjoy what is widely regarded as one of Brighton's coolest bars in the company of well turned out guests, not pub crawlers .

The JC’s website was the subject of an online attack yesterday. Hackers managed to place a message on the home page in support of "Palestinian Mujahaeeds".

The site was immediately suspended while technicians investigated if the site's security had been breached.

Fortunately, they quickly established that no serious breach had taken place and no damage was done. Early indications are that the perpetrator was operating from a computer in Turkey.

I’m sitting by the window holding a TV-style handset making the blinds (sorry, drapes) go up and down as I dim the lighting and adjust the room temperatures. Bit cooler in the bedroom, up a bit in the bathroom, methinks.

It’s raining outside and I’m indulging myself with the coolest boy toy that one of the slickest hotels on the Upper East Side, has to offer. And there’s girlie stuff too: the bathroom is lined with Frederic Fekkai smellies and, for those who can afford it, he even has a salon downstairs.

A group of us were in the Monkey Bar being stung the price of a cup final ticket for a bottle of fairly ordinary merlot when Keith Richard strolled past.

The smokers spotted him, ambling by with his daughter when they popped outside for a cough and a wheeze.

The following night Jessica Simpson sat a few tables away at Jean Georges, and in the morning in the lounge at Plaza Athenée, a waitress told me I was sitting in Sir Paul McCartney’s favourite seat.

When the stewardess says we have to take off with half a tank of fuel because the runway’s too short and the plane needs to shed a few pounds to make it into the air, you do wonder.

You find yourself looking at the waistlines of other passengers and wondering if maybe they should take the Jumbo from Gatwick.

When Simon Cowell stayed here, he was surrounded by autograph hunters. I had a Big Issue seller. But, each to his own.

A chauffeur dropped Cowell off, but at least I had a concierge take my car away. That helped make me feel just a bit special in what is a hot spot for the well-known and well-heeled: an ornately crafted Victorian boutique hotel in the heart of the city’s jewellery quarter.

It took an open-top car snug enough for two, a healthy breeze and miles of unbroken road to get this Mr Toad out of Toad Hall and off to Chelsea-on-Sea. And with a poop-poop and glassy-eyed visions of million-pound designer beach huts, he was on his way up the A1 to the Fens, planning the perfect day in a perfect town where Orwell once lived and the seagulls sound just a little posher than those over Southend.