Olivia Cole's diary

If you want to survive Cannes, why not learn from the people who do it best? Lesson one: restraint. Arriving on the beach of the elegant old Hotel Martinez, juror-in-chief Uma Thurman made quite the entrance as guest of honour at a party thrown by Calvin Klein. As she slinked down the stairs connecting the Croisette with the sand, she accepted a glass of champagne, but moments later cheerfully handed it over to a delighted guest before striking up a conversation with supermodel Natalia Vodianova and photographer of supermodels Ellen von Unwerth. I immediately followed suit, handing my glass to a slightly puzzled guest before approaching Jessica Chastain, this year's hottest property. We'll see her soon playing a young Helen Mirren in

Having taken it easy on day one, the following night I lasted effortlessly (but less soberly) into the early hours at The VIP Rooms next to the Palm Beach casino for Belvedere vodka's annual Cannes blow-out. Duran Duran sang their hearts out to all those wishing they were girls on film but were in fact on a revolving dancefloor. Quentin Tarantino's producer, the dapper Lawrence Bender, gave a masterclass in lesson two: working the room, with eager actresses of every nationality queuing up to be stroked by him like expensive cats. Jude Law and Harvey Weinstein turned up at around 3am as Jamie Foxx stole the show with an impromptu performance of his own, taking to the stage in his trademark sunglasses. Foxx won an Oscar for his acting and singing in Ray, the Ray Charles biopic, but tonight he was rapping, freestyle, about himself: 'Jamie mother-f***ing Foxx, Jamie motherf***ing Foxx' he repeated over and over, to the cheers of the crowd. Lesson three: grab any opportunity for ostentatious bouts of self-promotion.

Getting ready for dinner the next evening and running on only three hours' sleep, I wished I'd stuck more firmly to lesson one. This feeling was only made worse when I spied Jude Law hard at it in the gym (why, oh why, didn't I pack my trainers?). I perked up upon hearing that two of my favourite actors, Steve Coogan and Michael Fassbender, are rumoured to be making a film funded by the BBC about Northern Ireland, set in the punk era.

As we took a boat across the bay to the annual Finch's Quarterly Review party at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden Roc, the cobwebs were quite literally blown away. We almost lost one of our party to the choppy sea as we disembarked - apparently the photographer Alexia Niedzielski (Dasha Zhukova's best friend) had fallen in the night before, just managing to save her Louboutins as she tumbled overboard. Hence lesson four: dress appropriately. There's no such thing as a boat-friendly blow-dry and as my stylist friend (and Cannes partner in crime) Joanne Black will tell you, it's no good looking the part if you have to wear someone else's jacket to keep warm. All the bear hugs in the world from a delicious Max Irons (son of Jeremy) couldn't keep a resplendent Emily Browning warm. This nascent Hollywood golden couple still have a lot to learn from the likes of Mick Jagger who was very sensibly wrapped up warm in a thick purple cashmere jumper and yellow scarf.