Right up your alley

Bloomsbury is the place for plots and gossip. A hundred years ago, Lenin lived here for a bit, fomenting his revolution in Russia with Trotsky. In the Twenties, Forster, Woolf, Strachey and Keynes chatted the night away in their charmed circle, their rebellious watchwords 'do anything, say anything' striking terror into the hearts of the London establishment. An atmosphere of intrigue is in the very bones of the place.

I probably even contributed a bit to that reputation myself in some small way in the last few years, as we lived in Bloomsbury when I first went to work for the Prince of Wales. It was in our tiny flat on Guilford Street - just round the corner from ITN - that I first learned of Princess Diana's death, and it's from there that the emergence of Camilla was plotted.

I recall many evenings in hidden Bloomsbury restaurants spent with lawyers, journalists and palace colleagues. (Why do people always go to restaurants to plot? At least Tony Blair and Gordon Brown weren't unique in turning scheming into a social art form.)

Since moving from Bloomsbury to Clerkenwell we have found a new nexus of local restaurants and, of course, my days of royal intrigue are over, but it was with fond memories that we ventured back to our old terrain, this time to sample All Star Lanes - restaurant and bowling alley, housed in a magnificent old insurance building just near Sicilian Avenue. We took our famous dress designer friend, who for these purposes can be called Benny (but more of that later).

Fabulously noisy, All Star Lanes looks like an underground nightclub with a diner attached, but where the dancefloor should be, there's a hi-tech bowling alley. And, rather than encouraging swaying to mindless music, it's one of those places that forces lively conversation, punctuated by screams of horror or delight from the bowling alley.

The service was sharp and friendly, and the food a good take on the things we like about America - burgers, chips, steak sandwiches, pastrami and even my favourite, onion rings. There was no sign of George Bush, or FBI agents looking for British citizens our police had decided not to bother with.

The wine list was entirely New World, which we tend to steer clear of normally, but faced with no choice we dived into a bottle of Californian Clay Station Viognier and a Pinot Noir 2003 Central Coast California. Both were more than up to the job and put us in the right mood for bowling.

But before then, dessert! A sublime banana split and a wonderful Key lime pie (which Guy pointed out was Mrs Thatcher's favourite pud) both deserve a mention, as do the reasonable prices of everything on the menu.

Next stop was the bowling alley, where we were expecting to join noisy girls and strutting lads. But - and this was the best surprise - it wasn't a bit like that. It was happy, spontaneous fun. No showing off - which was good as no one was an expert - and none of the dodgy behaviour that alcohol and sport can induce.

We all had to have 'bowling names' for the electronic scoring system. I became Blackapper (a misspelling of Blackadder, the nickname I was given at the palace), Guy was Bet Lynch (his devotion to Coronation Street divas knows no bounds) and our designer friend was Benny (why is still a mystery, but maybe it was something to do with Crossroads). Anyway, he won, but only just, and it really didn't matter as it was the best fun I've had on a weeknight out for ages.