It's not a digital world when you've lost your passports

Everyone talks a lot about the paperless society these days, especially in my industry. We beam contact information through the air to each other, swap iPod playlists, bank on line and generally run most of the administrata of our lives by computer screen rather than printed paper. Until, that is, you lose one very important piece of paper, and your life stops.

I was supposed to be in Las Vegas last week. But 12 hours before departure I discovered the disappearance of my passport case, helpfully containing both my American and British passports. I spent the next seven hours ripping the house apart and cleaning obsessively, convinced that the case must have fallen or been kicked someplace. Or put someplace stupid like in the refrigerator in a moment of absent mindedness. By evening I had to admit defeat, assuming that somehow the passports had been mixed up with a pile of rubbish and carted out for the Thursday morning pick up. At that point, I had to write the mortifying email to my management chain explaining that I would not be in Vegas because I was what the Brits call "a complete numpty".

OK, I didn't really label myself. I figured they were doing that for me.

Thus I spent the week not only feeling badly that I was missing the corporate extravaganza of the year, but experiencing the dubious pleasures of TWO countries' passport administration operations.

Most Brits won't believe this, but the British Home Office won this contest hands down. A model of efficiency, their web site offered a 24/7 helpline staffed by efficient and friendly Welsh people who told me exactly what I needed to do, where I needed to pick up forms, and when to show up at the Home Office in London. Arriving exactly when told, I was through security in five minutes, at the check in desk instantaneously and directed upstairs to the waiting room. Less than five minutes later I was called to a window where a pleasant woman checked my forms and offered me a four hour turn-around service for an additional £20. Done.

The Americans weren't bad, but a little more labourious all around. Check the web site and it makes a big deal of the need to come to the embassy in person. Unfortunately, you have to read to the end of the page (which I didn't) to find that you won't be let in without a reservation. I strolled over to the embassy direct from the Home Office, hoping to get everything done in one day. No way. The brawny security guard out front, who clearly believed he was keeping the world safe for democracy, wasn't letting me anywhere near the place. I had to go home, get on line and make an appointment using the internet-based booking system.

With the British passport sorted, I really didn't need the American one for a month. So I didn't anticipate problems. 'Til a entered the booking system. First available appointment: while I'm on hols in Luxembourg. Second available appointment: In the middle of a critical corporate meeting. Third available appointment: Five days before leaving for St. Louis. Not good.

So I clicked on the "emergency travel" button. I could prove that I was leaving the country on 4 July; they didn't need to know that I could get in and out courtesy of her Majesty. That got me an appointment on 30 June. And an emergency passport within three hours. But three hours in which I was locked in to the Embassy waiting room, all electronic equipment having been lifted off me and unable to leave. So much for the chance to catch up on email while waiting. The whole American experience yielded an emergency passport, good for one year and redeemable for no extra cost for a permanent one as long as I fill out more paperwork and can give up with temporary for three weeks. Less ideal that the Home Office wizardry, but still not bad.

So, lesson learned. I will never postpone putting away my passports again. Because no matter how digital we think the world might be, without that little piece of paper you are truly out of comission.

Royal Ascot is great fun, but not as posh as the hats suggest

I thought of Eliza Doolittle a lot at Royal Ascot. Not just for the spectacle of the famous race scene in My Fair Lady, awash with fabulous clothes and hats. More specifically for that wonderful moment when Eliza's facade slips and she bellows decidedly un-ladylike encouragement at her horse in a rich cockney accent. There were a lot of Elizas in the crowd.

Next to getting invited to Cowes aboard somebody's boat, Royal Ascot is probably the event within the English social season that I most wanted to attend, but had never managed. I was fortunate to snag an invitation this year and was as excited as a kid in the run-up to Christmas. I plotted my outfit: Blue, early '60s patterned and styled skirt, blue top, slimline white jacket; big white hat with very big bow. Designer shades at the ready, though we never got enough sun to need them. I even withdrew a bit of cash for betting and paid close attention to the Radio 4 picks.

There's no doubt about it: It's a grand and glorious occasion. From the time you hit the High Street in Ascot you're surrounded by the fashion parade. Men in tailcoats and top hats (necessary for the Royal Enclosure), women in their best summer frocks and showy headgear. It was here that I encountered my first Elizas. Dressed to kill, standing barefoot next to the pub, 3-inch heels beside them, long-neck beer gripped in one hand, fag in the other, braying like donkeys.

Eliza or not, the fashion statement for the year seemed to be fascinators. While hats were still in abundance, those little clumps of feathers and whatnot ... corsages for the head ... were in the very large majority. Although not, I hear, in the Royal Enclosure, where women are still required to cover the whole crown of their head.

Though we weren't in the uber-posh Royal Enclosure, we certainly weren't suffering. The Pavilion Restaurant is a long, glass-walled building at one end of the front of the course complex, looking out over the entry gates, the bandstand and the winners' circle. You can't see the course from here, but the Pavilion is filled with large screen televisions giving you all the action. And girls wandering around with hand-held betting machines. So you can, in theory, have the whole Ascot experience without ever standing up. Or seeing a real horse. Which, given the champagne that was flowing regularly from the moment we sat down to the end of the day, would have been easy to do.

Getting out to the course (or track, for all you Americans) wasn't difficult, however. After a satisfying lunch (salmon terrine, roast chicken, chocolate tart, large quantities of champagne) we wandered beneath the grandstand and emerged onto an exquisite scene. Before us the vivid green jewel of turf stretching for miles, bisected by bright white fences, bordered by the trees that cloak leafy, suburban Ascot. Behind us, the striking modern architecture of the new grandstand, its canopy like a flock of birds on the wing and each balcony below filled with merry makers, the women's bright dresses and hats turning the whole facade into a blaze of colour. If 19th century races were the same, no wonder the Impressionists painted them. In the centre, the grand glass bubble of the royal box. Too far away to make out details, but if you'd seen the royal arrivals earlier you could pick out the queen (purple splotch) and the Duchess of Cornwall (blue).

The most beautiful element in the whole scene was undoubtedly the horses. Delicate, gleaming, muscles quivering with excitement, mounted by jockeys whose vivid silks made them the only men in the place to outshow the feminine fashion parade. Beguiled by the scene, I made my usual mistake of placing my bets based on the combination of prettiest horse and jauntiest racing silks. Of course, I lost. But only eight of the ten pounds I had set aside for the day. Tired of losing, I decided not to bet on the race for which I had the Radio 4 tip. The Duke of Marmalade, of course, won.

Having watched a few races and giggled at a few drunk Elizas and their even more sozzled dates ("chav city", my hostess sighed in her cut glass accent, shaking her well coiffed head sadly) we headed back to the more exclusive confines of the hospitality area. Just in time for the cheese and port. Then a bit of a wander to the winners' circle to see some hefty silverware being handed over to some top hatted owners. Back to the pavilion again, where it was time for afternoon tea. Delicate sandwiches (cucumber, salmon, egg and watercress), scones with cream and jam, bite-sized pastries. More champagne. Good Lord, didn't we just finish lunch? But how can one resist? Far too sated for walking, we took in the last race from the comfort of our table. Allowing us to capture several extra rounds of bubbly just before the bar closed down. (You will not be surprised to know that it was NOT a good week at Weight Watchers.)

Completely exhausted after all this hard work, the walk to Ascot train station seemed like miles. We even threw propriety to the wind and joined the Elizas, kicking off our shoes and making a bit of the trek barefoot. When you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Welcome to LA LA Land, where even the homeless have designer kit

Effusive customer service. Water pressure. Dinner plates piled to feed a family. Air conditioning that actually works. Yup, I'm back in America. But not just any old bit; I'm working in the positively gorgeous environs of Santa Monica, California.

I can't explain why at the moment; we're not releasing that news until later in the month. It will certainly be worth a blog entry or two. Let's just say I was in development meetings for a new marketing partnership, and I appreciated the fact that these future partners live someplace with a beach, nice hotels and a trendy, walkable downtown area. This may be the first time I've ever said this about any location in California, but with enough money to buy into the real estate, I could see myself living here.

The biggest revelation of my visit, however, was that I could be broke and move here, too. Every morning on my walk in Palisades Park I passed scores of needy souls wrapped in sleeping bags. This being Southern California, most were cushioned by cast off yoga mats. A little research yielded the news that the regular homeless in Santa Monica number almost 2,000, a full two per cent of the beach town's regular residents. They're attracted by the weather, a sympathetic city government and charities that offer good food daily.

These people occupy a different planet from the British homeless I walk by between Waterloo and St. Pauls. London's homeless are ragged, dirty, almost always in their 20s, strung out and thin as rakes due to whatever drugs are coursing through their veins. It's actually fairly easy to ignore them, as they are already wraith-like creatures with one foot in the grave. (And I'm not being heartless here. All the homeless charities tell you not to give them money, but to direct them to the official charities.) The Santa Monica homeless are in a different class. Older, well fed, generally well dressed and tidy enough to pass without notice were it not for the fact that they were pulling their belongings beside them in neatly packed parcels. Clearly, even the cast offs are good in this town, as the beggars' bundles were collected into nice bags or pieces of luggage, and piled atop various wheeled contraptions of fairly new provenance. I saw some distinctly upscale prams that would still be carting around middle class babies in most other countries.

I really wasn't sure how to feel about this discovery. Afraid to take my morning walk? Horrified that this level of homelessness exists in America? Proud that in my homeland even the street people are well dressed and have a lot of stuff? Or awkward about the fact that while these people were sleeping rough, I was calling the luxurious Huntley Hotel home?

I tried not to feel bad about the Huntley, but couldn't avoid just a twinge of guilt as I sat in its top floor bar, The Penthouse, sipping a perfectly blended cosmopolitan and watching the sun set over the mountains. Moving past the initial emotion, I acknowledged that as tedious as business travel can be, there are some benefits.

The Huntley is of a type: hip and uber-trendy, more reminiscent of a nightclub than a hotel. fortunately, the designers had gone for an elegant club with light colours, scented candles and art inspired by the undersea world, thus narrowly missing the tacky hideousness I despised in the W at Times Square. The rooms are black, beige and brown, with plenty of mirrors to reflect all that light spilling through the big windows. The views are of beach, mountain and the flower-draped suburbs, which, to my eyes, beats any view from New York on any day of the year. I really enjoyed the art, from the installation of white wooden fish swimming across the lobby wall to the coral fronds used as wall sculpture and the abstract prints of marine forms. The Penthouse bar is all gauzy white drapes and crystal chandaliers with views from every angle. Evidently it's not unusual to spot a star or two in the room, though everyone we saw looked fairly normal. If a bit overly botoxed.

(I had my LA star moment two days later when I shared a plane, and a brief stint in the security line, with Keanu Reeves.)

Almost as trendy was Sushi Roku, one of a small chain of Japanese restaurants in Southern California. More elegant design (black, polished wood, pale stone walls), more fine views (across Ocean Drive to Palisades Park with the water beyond), more excellent service and exquisitely prepared fish in great variety. At $70 per person for sashimi, three sushi rolls, a couple of martinis each and dessert, it was probably also the most expensive sushi I've consumed. But you have to pay for that view. And, no doubt, the contribution to the homeless soup kitchen.

We had another excellent meal at The Lobster, perched on the hillside directly above Santa Monica pier. Top quality seafood, fine wine and service so cheerful I was paralysed by culture shock for several minutes.

By Friday afternoon my culinary elegance was heading south with my car, however, as I stopped by my favourite taco stand in Redondo Beach. Business wrapped, it was off for a quick visit to my family in Palos Verdes. A romp with the little people, a catch-up with my cousin and his wife, more sushi, a good night's sleep, a bit more visiting and a spot of power shopping on the way to the airport. Thus 24 hours of life got packed against the work of the trip. And that, of course, was the best benefit of all.

Pont de la Tour squanders fine view with poor service

There are two major problems with business lunches. The first is the challenge of staying true to the healthy ethos of Weight Watchers when you're presented with a menu of tempting delights. The second is the fact that you always seem to pay double for that lunch, working far more hours into the evening than you actually took for the meal. Finally flipping off my email at 10pm tonight was, however, probably a fair trade for Thames-side dining in the open air on the finest day of the summer so far.

The Pont de la Tour is a London classic that's been featuring on the short lists of the rich, famous or simply expense accounted for many years. It's greatest claim to fame, so my host informed me today, was that the Blairs took the Clintons here during their first presidential visit so they could play at being normal, middle class couples. How things changed... The politicians are gone, but the venue has hung on and still packs the diners in thanks to its long-standing reputation and its magnificent location on the south side of the river directly below Tower Bridge.

The restaurant is a long, narrow one, making the most of its frontage in one of the old warehouses along the river. On clement summer days, two rows of tables stretch along the full length of the restaurant beneath an awning. Oddly, once they placed the tables they seem to have forgotten about the view, as they'd made no effort to arrange chairs to appreciate their best asset. They'd set our table for three so that two of us had our backs to the river.

The outdoor dining effectively doubles the capacity of the place, though today there was nobody dining inside and not all the outdoor tables were booked. Even with that reprieve, the staff didn't seem to be able to handle the requirements of the diners. I have rarely had service so slow. This spilled far beyond a continental attitude allowing you to linger over lunch to pure neglect. All glasses empty and two requests made before someone finally topped up wine, 30 minutes waiting for someone to take our order at the start, 40 waiting for dessert menus, another 30 waiting on the bill. This is NOT the place to go if you need to be out promptly.

Did the food make up for the service? Not really. It was extremely good, but to the same standard I have come to expect at any high-end French restaurant in the city. Dishes were beautifully presented and perfectly cooked; I was particularly happy with a fillet of sea trout that balanced a crisp, blackened skin with a moist, flaky interior. My starter of crab was tasty and generously sized. But neither were anything surprising or innovative, nor did anything on the menu fall into that category. Dependable and basic, you could have been in any one of a dozen restaurants in London. Desserts were the only thing that pushed towards a high point. I had a strawberry meringue fool that achieved a balance of tart, sweet and creamy, and my companions both had something similar to a very rich chocolate brownie with clotted cream, a bite of which had me wishing I'd thrown caution to the winds and gone for the high fat choice.

So overall, very average. If you're dying for a view, grab a few drinks at a riverside pub. Then get some French food that's better served and altogether more pleasing at The Bleeding Heart or Orrery.