I exited the lift at the penthouse level of a very obscure high-rise in London Docklands. At the end of the corridor was a door - ajar- and a familiar voice from within: "Is that you? I'm in the kitchen. Do go through and help yourself to a drink. I won't be a minute."
I entered a huge lounge, made my way across a deep pile carpet and splashed a 30 year old Glenmorangie into a crystal glass.
My host was standing right behind me when I turned round. "Your good health Prime Minister," I said, buckling slightly at the knees.
"And cheers me dears to you too," answered David Cameron. "Welcome to my little hole in the corner."
The hours that followed seem like a blur to me now. An array of famous faces, celebrities, ne'er-do-wells, rogues and stars passed before my eyes that night.
Was that really Boris Johnson sharing a joke with Baroness Thatcher, her head thrown back in gay abandon? Was that Ed Miliband Indian Wrestling with brother Dave? Was that Lord Coe doing fifty press-ups on top of Carol Vorderman? And Was Wayne Rooney making sweet music with Pippa Middleton in the broom cupboard?
I cannot tell. Damn that Glemorangie.