It's my fault. We watched an episode of Masterchef (where the wannabe chefs ended up at in-house restaurant Suka) and I mentioned that The Sanderson is my favourite hotel in all of London. It may look fairly unassuming from outside, but the Philippe Starck interiors make me want to rob a bank just so I can afford to deck out my flat the same way. The staff are all model-esque beautiful. The lifts are a talking point in themselves. The whole place is kitsch, ironic heaven. We're talking miles of curtain and glass, unexepected seating throughout, Venetian glass everywhere, lip-shaped sofas in the lobby and dark, light-show lifts that look like the solar system. I've been lucky enough to visit a few times for press events, but I've never seen what the rooms look like until this weekend.

Charles, being both brilliant and cunning, told me not to make plans for the weekend and arranged for me to be at Oxford Circus at 3.20pm. All I knew was I needed an overnight bag and a nice dress. It was only when I got into town that I learned the plan. He'd booked me in for an afternoon massage at my favourite hotel. When I was done, I was to phone him again for further instructions.

One heavenly (if thorough) aromatherapy massage later, I was pummelled and prodded to perfection and ready for the next bit. It turns out the boy had been happily ensconced in a room on the floor above for hours, watching the rugby and generally applauding himself for being able to to watch the peanut-hugging egg chasers and be a good boyfriend at the same time.

After I joined him, all over-excited grins and slightly sore back from the massage (I'm feeling the benefit now) we spent the rest of the afternoon drinking overpriced champagne on the sleigh-like king sized bed in our ridiculously decadent, glass-and-curtained room before a highly anticipated dinner at Suka.

That, I must admit, was one of the lower points of the weekend. Though the food was lovely (especially the pudding) it wasn't outstanding, and the atmosphere was busy, the music was loud and the staff were so attentive I wanted to tell them to get lost a couple of times. In short, it was nice, but not as nice as I've had elsewhere.

We finished with cocktails at the Purple Bar, a tiny but scarily opulent little hideaway reserved for hotel guests and people who know the right people. It was all tiny chairs, huge martini glasses and so many Venetian mirrors you didn't know where to look. It also had the bar of my dreams, with an entire wall lined with every cocktail ingredient you could ever imagine. I loved it.

Suka redeemed itself in the morning with breakfast. A buffet including banana bread is always a winner, and my eggs benedict were gorgeous...what's not to love about heart-attack inducing hollandaise?

I should finish off with a paragraph of schmaltzy talk of just how lucky I am to have someone who'd do this for me. But I hate 'isn't my boyfriend brilliant' people, I know he will already be embarassed enough by this (despite asking me countless times when I was going to write about him) and, quite honestly, my mentionitis is already bad enough. So I'll just say this instead...

Best Weekend Ever.