H&M Regent Street Launch Party

Having managed so far to avoid the circus, last night I made my (fashionably) late entrance into the fray of LFW. I had decided to be selective about my party attendance. One simply can't be running off all over town leaping into every envelope opening. Availability is so not a good look. Anyway, I went to the new Hennes store opening on Regent St. Yup, apparently having a store every 50 metres on Oxford St is still not enough for this Swedish giant. And don't you know, those old Swedes sure can throw a party – and build a lovely big old store full of marvellously jaunty threads. The waiter boys were all dressed up Pete Doherty style in black skinnys, white t-shirt, braces and a bowler hat - de rigueur, bien sur. The waitress girls had more of an Alexa Chung thing going on – but then lord doesn't everyone these days. Unless you're of a blonde persuasion in which case you have to channel Agyness. If you're a boy you can either look like Gareth Pugh or Mr Doherty. There are only four looks these days in old London town. Quel bore.

The party was extra super fun cos you could shop while you partied, although the combination of champagne and retail opportunity is a slightly dangerous one (2 x dress, 1 x jacket pour moi). The other perilous thing (given my newly embraced bikini diet) was the Marie Antoinette-esque mound of cakes and brownies and a TOWER of macaroons and jellies and chocolates, and all things sweet that you could possibly imagine. It was bona fide Wonka land. I took a strawberry (did NOT dip it in chocolate) and walked smugly away (crying inside obviously). And then Mark Ronson played with his band. That is one hot looking man. Frankly I was too busy gawping at the hotness than to pay much attention to what they were actually singing. Songs one would presume. Kelly Osbourne held court in the DJ booth upstairs avec her gloomy coterie of hungry looking indie boys. Perez Hilton – him of that other blog you might have read – was there. He had on a t-shirt which said 'Save Britney'. Oh, the irony.

Then, it actually seemed churlish to merely go to one party in an evening, so onwards and homewards to the Great Eastern Hotel for some copious amounts of Moet (it was their bash) and dancing and prancing with those Eastend trendsters. Although, I must say their taste in music has a lot to be desired – the song that got all those skinny legs onto the floor? Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas is You.

No, me neither.