I would love to be able to regale you with a parallel story of my fabulous hols to St Lucia this year. I would love to tell you how my friend Fanny Fitzpatrick found a nanny in St Kitts. I would love to fill you in on the Chelsea club scene, but frankly the mere mention of Sloanesville makes my mouth curl in the wrong direction. The brogues! The chinos! And those awkward jerking movements that some people qualify as dancing.

Only last week I took a friend to eat at Papillon, and post-supper Chelsea was a midnight ghost town. But something is changing. With founders named Duncan Stirling, Ed Godrich and Charlie Gilkes, we're guessing the clientele at St Kitt's won't digress too far from the madding crowd, but we're nevertheless willing to ditch our leggings in Hoxton, don our favourite Alice Bands and dance like nobody can see.

Décor is everything you would expect from a spanking new members' bar: resin, discoballs and light box tables, while gastronomy is totally apt: sip a Hans Sloane or a Colonial Breeze; the croque monsieurs come slathered with foie gras, naturally.