Do you know who I am?

Restaurant fashions may come and go, but in London the best way to discover if you are a someone is if you can get a table at The Ivy. I'm obviously no one. I have just been told I haven't any chance of getting in for an evening meal at a reasonable hour at the celebs' favourite canteen on any night before the end of January 2003. And as that is the last date they are taking bookings for at the moment that means effectively never. I could weep.

I shouldn't be surprised. A number of years ago I was asked by my then boss to organise a dinner being hosted for Tom Ford, the Gucci designer. The great man decided he wanted to go to The Ivy. With a little bit of pleading I managed to book a table for 12 at less than a week's notice. Unfortunately, I had to cancel the booking a couple of days beforehand. After apologising in the most grovelling terms, I tentatively enquired if I could possibly have a table for two that night instead. "No, sorry, we're full," the reply came back.

It's enough to make you want to resort to the most bottom clenchingly embarrassing sentence in the English language, namely, "Do you know who I am?" Chelsea star Jody Morris was alleged to have screamed those very words during a contretemps with bouncer Trevor Thirlwall at the private Wellington Club in Knightsbridge in January. At least Morris had a good chance of someone answering him in the affirmative. If I asked the question everyone would simply assume I was suffering from amnesia.

So, to get into The Ivy would require an assumed identity. Knowing the restaurant's penchant for high-profile fashion designers, I called back after my spectacular snub to see if a celeb could outgun the pleb. This time I pretended I was telephoning on behalf of John Galliano, the head designer at Christian Dior. The lady on the line oozed amiability and booked a table for four on the day I wanted, no questions asked. Admittedly, they did quibble about the time - I wanted 8pm, they offered me 8.30pm - but even a king of couture has to compromise. I'm already planning my Galliano disguise, although I suspect it would be more convincing if I shoved a pillow up my jumper and passed myself off as Kate Moss.

Surely I wouldn't have to go to such lengths to order a takeaway from It girls' eaterie San Lorenzo. After all, multi-millionaire Zak Goldsmith's wife, Sheherazade, had the Knightsbridge restaurant deliver her delicious Italian nibbles to the Portland Hospital while giving birth to her daughters Uma and Thyra. But would they be prepared to rustle up a takeaway for me? I couldn't even persuade them to pop a few slices of prosciutto into a tinfoil tray. And I even promised to pick up the food myself - something Sheherazade presumably didn't.

Feeling indignant, I then decided to see if Gordon Ramsay at Claridges would supply outside catering for a private dinner party. The woman there couldn't have been nicer, but regretfully couldn't help. But they did offer me a private dining room, although not on the date I wanted. The next time I called it was as Ben Affleck's assistant, but even Hollywood's finest couldn't persuade the great man to cook up a takeaway. Nor could the restaurant offer a private room for 12 on the requested evening. It'll have to be The Ivy that night then, Ben.

Affleck did better at Versace. I told Antonio in menswear that the actor was paying a flying visit to London and wouldn't have time to come in to the Bond Street boutique. Instead, could they send a selection of suits and shirts to his hotel suite for him to choose from? "No problem at all," came the reply. I had no luck at all trying to persuade Versace to send anything to my home south of the river.

It seems the more famous and wealthy you are, the less you will have to pay. As plain old me, I politely asked about the possibility of a discount on a superior two-bedroom suite at the Berkeley in Knightsbridge. I was told I would have to pay the full wack: £1,450. As Stella McCartney, however, I managed to blag 10 per cent off. Well, she may need to count the pennies now that her fiancè has left his job at Wallpaper* magazine.

Of course, celebrities, like the rest of us, find the fact that most shops still shut before 7pm rather annoying. I called the Sloane Street branch of Prada to ask if Ben Affleck could pop into the store after hours. The shop passed me on to the press office and within minutes a charming lady called Jan called me back, delighted to accommodate Ben's needs. "There will be a security guard waiting on the door," she promised. Just in case I (sorry, Ben) got mobbed.

When I asked as me, I was told no, never, forget it. There didn't seem much point asking for a discount.