![]() Ideally, they must be warmed on a towel rail in advance, certainly not crumpled under one’s pillow like a student hiding their stash. Since we’re here, let it be known: I like Derek Rose pin-dot cotton-jacquard pyjamas in navy with ivory piping and top pocket. ![]() I like pyjamas – so what? It’s better than sleeping in that old T-shirt you picked up on a scuba-diving holiday to Tunisia. I do whatever happens when two human beings can’t find anything good to watch on Netflix and then I get up. I mean, one would hope so, right?) But even when I end up naked – which is rarely – I never go to sleep naked. And speaking of which I might end up naked having started not naked. Naked, however, just isn’t my go-to pregame style. Maybe ex-president Barack slips between the covers with Michelle – also naked, except for those killer thigh-high Balenciaga boots she wore to meet Sarah Jessica Parker – humming “Havana” by Camila Cabello without a stitch between his saddle-gripping thighs and the ten-ply Egyptian cotton sheets. Gandhi may have slept naked but probably for reasons other than pure lasciviousness.) Or Obama. (David, the British male model, not Gandhi, the prophetic Indian figurehead. (I bet he sleeps naked.) Perhaps you are Beto O’Rourke. I don’t own an original Jackson Pollock that I hang in my office on my Philippe Starck-designed superyacht, my tax bracket does not fall into that of a permanent traveller and, no, I do not sleep naked. I don’t get my EA to do my weekly food shop at Harrods Food Hall. I don’t spend Valentine’s Day in Amilla Fushi in the Maldives. I don’t have a special brush to clean my trainers. I’m just not one of those guys that roll like that. Is the naked thing bothering you? It’s bothering me. The other sock (Uniqlo, since we’re doing this) seems to have made it onto the nearby table, where it lies like cotton roadkill on the shade of a desk light. In order of appearance: room key fob, iPhone, navy cotton coat (from much underrated Italian label Fay), Paul Smith holdall (a stalwart when on business), my Moncler leather wallet (with credit cards), $460 in cash in a Bottega Veneta money clip (no, I never thought I’d use one either, but there you go), a Frame denim shirt (crumpled), a white Ralph Lauren T-shirt with a large, dubious red stain, grey Saint Laurent Chelsea boots, black Acne Studio jeans, a Tudor Black Bay GMT (wow, I took off my watch?), a much treasured gold necklace (my girlfriend’s, pilfered about six months ago) and, finally, one lone black sock. Like a doomed spacecraft disintegrating on re-entering the earth’s atmosphere, my clothing and various accoutrements seem to have been jettisoned from my hands, pockets and body, thrown onto the floor, willy-nilly, one by one. She didn’t allow us to be raised like we were wealthy’Ī trail of detritus leads from the hotel room’s heavy white wooden door to the edge of the bed, where I am currently contemplating slipping back into the unconscious to forget rather than stay awake and remember. ![]() ‘My mother’s parents grew up in the Depression. Why am I here again? What happened last night? And, more importantly, who was I with? Me and, one imagines, several other rather disappointed Hollywood ghosts wondering, as I am, where on earth my silk briefs have gone. It’s also the room in which Academy Award-winning producer David O Selznick slept – or rather tossed and turned – while making Gone With The Wind. ![]() For a writer in the business this name means something: at her peak she had a readership of more than 20 million and could snap an ingénue’s career faster than Howard Hughes crunching a breadstick in Dan Tana’s. It was in this very one-bed apartment (an apartment with floor-to-ceiling French doors that open on to a walled palm garden) where renowned gossip and film critic Louella Parsons once assembled her devastating columns in the Thirties. There’s real industry history here, history I’m currently flashing like Bruce Willis’ ego in Colour Of Night. It’s quite the room – not your usual dusty nostalgia trip that pops up so often in this town or whatever version of wipe-down, decaffeinated cool the proprietor was into (and could afford) that week. ![]()
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