Listless until listed

ON THE MOVE

Last week I was travelling on a world traveller "plus" ticket. Designed to make you feel great about a supplementary charge for a few extra inches of legroom, it will have you hovering awkwardly between economy and business. "Which class are you flying?" asked an airline busboy holding what appeared to be a passenger list. "World traveller plus,"

I said, emphasising the "plus". "Oh, economy," he said dismissively. "No," I started to play a game of spot the difference. But he had moved on to grab the attache of a smug, and clearly first-class, traveller, while I, on the wrong customer list, suddenly felt the weight of my luggage.

One disgruntled hour later, as I boarded the flight, I was motioned aside by an attendant appearing to check my name against another list. Other passengers filed past me and I felt like the child punished outside the classroom as the history lesson, which I suddenly wanted to a part of, progressed inside. After several minutes of speculation, I heard, "You're upgraded to business class, madam". I was suddenly on the "lucky" list.

A few days later, as I stood, biting my shivering lip and curling my frozen toes, outside a "members-only" nightclub in yuppie Kensington, I was reminded again of the importance of lists. London's sweaty super clubs have, in the last couple of years, been replaced by boutique clubs that, by creating an aura of impermeability around themselves, have whipped party-goers into an admission frenzy.

After weeks of imploring, my sister had us tentatively placed on The List. We did all to avoid repudiation " smiled benevolently at the irascible hostess with the giant faux fur coat and even larger ego, swore at her enough to get stuck with several ASBOs (anti-social behavioural orders), and postured desperately " until Surly McBurly finally gave in.

At the end of an extended soiree, the club had lived up to the reputation of being entirely pretentious, but a jolly schmooze with B-list celebrities.

Speaking of most wanted, the modest cupcake is cooking up quite a storm with Western epicureans. Unobtrusive, old-fashioned bakeries are whipping up batch after batch of delicious cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles in every colour for hordes of greedies waiting for a mouthful. I am a fan... cupcakes just make you feel cute.

Hummingbird bakery, in antiquing sanctuary Portobello Road, is the headquarters of the cupcake frenzy in London. I travelled an hour to get there only to find a sold-out sign posted at lunch time.

Of course, I made the trudge the next day, and stood in a 24 person queue to acquire my sugar rush. New York, incidentally also a cupcaking city, is home to Magnolia (remember it from Sex and the City?) and last

I heard, they had waiting lists and were contemplating bouncers.

Sadly, as one new tradition makes itself felt, another exits. And although it's far from the end of the road for that great institution of British pubs, the prognosis isn't great.

Campaign for Real Ale (an advocacy group for publicans' rights) announced last week that 26 pubs close down each month as beer drinkers are opting to buy cheaper beer at off-licenses and drink at home.

Currently, 438 are in the process of re-development, mainly to be turned into ubiquitous Starbucks and Costa Coffees. The impending smoking ban in England will undoubtedly bring more testing times for pub commerce. I think we can safely assume that at least there will be no tough admission lists to maneuver there...