The Ambassador Will See You Now, Mr. Valenti.

Saturday Connie brought me along as her guest to the British Consulate Garden Party, that was being thrown for the BPI conference she's been in town for this week. It was up in an area called Hancock Park, LA old money, beautiful, dappled avenues, clipped lawns and antiquey-looking mini mansions. A big Union Jack flag in the front lawn and a black Triumph motorbike parked outside. Photek pulling up in an Aston Martin.

Shook hands with the ambassador on the way in, who was dressed oddly like a James Bond villain. The lawn was kitted out with a stage, two bars with dicky bow bartenders, ambassadorial staff expertly zig-zagging the lawn, dishing out drinks and miniature versions of English classics like mini slivers of coronation chicken white bread sandwiches, two-bite lamb chops and steak and kidney pies. A cheese table had pots of Branston's.

It was a blatant recording industry network opportunity and guests wore badges spelling out name and company, which makes everyone instinctively look at each others chests first before addressing anyone. I try and fight the impulse, because it feels rude and insincere when someone does it to you, and plus it could potentially end you up in a situation where, let's say you and the other person clock each other's badges, and then the flag drops as one of you realises that there's nothing to be gained from a stop-and-chat, no common ground, no business opportunity and no physical attraction - and you are both forced to shuffle out, and hope you can avoid the other all evening. Excruciating. So I battle to avoid looking straight at the badge, but it's difficult, because you know they're there. It's like being in a room with nothing but chesty women in low cut frocks.