170.

As I approached the entrance to The Dorchester hotel (Floris toiletries), l noticed it to be unusually busy with photographers door-stopping.

Once inside the lobby, it was a buzz with an inordinate amount of meeter's & greeter's; one of them approached to enquire, 'Are you OK with that bag Madam?' For goodness sake, it was only my handbag, not the trunk-sized thing women are inclined to haul about these days, like some kind of status symbol.

On my way up to the 6th floor, the lift-door opened (3rd) and in stepped a vaguely familiar face, hmmm...I've seen him before, was it on the telly or in a movie? 'Going down,' 'No, I'm still on my way up,' I replied.

As I neared Mr Latex Gloves suite (see Blog 40), passing the courteous almost stooping, housemaids, I clicked, 'Ah yes...it's the BAFTA's this evening,' a bunch of nominee's must be staying at the hotel, Colin Firth anyone?

A, had his usual three-bathroom suite overlooking Hyde Park, which I should mention, must be the size of my house...his room, not Hyde Park.

The sumptuously luxuriant, satin-canopied four-poster bed, reflected in the wall-length mirrored wardrobe, as were our antics. This afforded me an indulgent moment to view my pneumatic pumping skills, whilst wearing nothing but latex gloves and stockings, and the new one-stone slimmer Frances (January's diet), well done me!

A, likes to keep his dressing gown on during sex (each to their own); I should point out that the dressing gowns at The Dorchester are at least half-an-inch thick and quite impossible to penetrate.

Have you ever tried to fuck someone through a Dorchester dressing gown, don't bother, you'd have a better chance of penetrating the vaults at the Bank of England, where I was last week actually (the bank, not the vault).

But hey, the customer is always right and if this is how A likes to do it then he shall have it, mine is but to pleasure, not judge.

Before leaving, I took a few of the posh toiletries (with permission), 'They're charging me for it Frances, take em all.' I know it's a silly thing, but it's like getting back to my car five minutes after my time has run out on the meter and finding I haven't been given a ticket; beating the system is quite exhilarating.

A, was still sprawled out on the bed when I left him (mission accomplished), the head-housemaid approached me in the corridor, clipboard in hand, 'Madam, can we turn down your room now?' Thinking of the knackered chap I'd just left behind I replied, 'Ohhh, would you mind coming back in about say half an hour, thank you,' I'm thoughtful like that.