New York, United States

One of the curses of getting older is that jetlag seems to get worse with each passing year. The first time I came to New York almost 14 years ago I barely noticed the time difference. Now it screws my sleep patterns to death. So 3.36am and my eyes open, 4.12am I'm still awake and 5.48am I finally give up and decide I may as well jump in the shower.

Before I do I fire up the laptop only to discover that it's killed Outlook so I can't access my work emails. I ctrl/alt/delete, restart and reboot, trying in vain to gain access but the damn thing frustrates me at every turn. Fortunately I can still access the internet so manage to make some progress but eventually give up at 8am and head up to breakfast instead.

Liz and Simon join me and after bagels, coffee and fruit we check into our flight and out of our hotel, taking a taxi over to the Hotel Americano to set up the magazine shoot we're about to do.

Simon has arranged local hire and an assistant for all his lighting equipment and Dominic, the NY-based guy assigned to the shoot, is already hard at work on the roof, rigging up the various lights.

Soon after 10am Conor and his team arrive and we get cracking, setting up ironing boards and clothes rails and snapping a variety of looks around the pool, against the skyline, up against textured walls, out on the street by a giant Stars & Stripes and even slipping a cabbie $10 to park up for five minutes while Conor poses away.

It takes four hours to get everything in the bag and after final farewells to them all, Simon, Liz and I sit down and reflect on the shoot, looking through pics and patting ourselves on the back. Over the past three days we have secured enough content to last for the rest of the year and delivered a cover shoot that's going to look stunning.

We breathe a massive sigh of relief. It may have been fun and exciting but there's also a ton of tension and adrenaline that swirls in the mix until the job is done, and that now exhales
into the ether as we sit back and contemplate what's been achieved.

To celebrate I suggest lunch at Soho House, which conveniently enough is at the other end of the High Line, 15 mins walk south. So we grab our bags, climb the steps and head in the opposite direction to yesterday, marvelling at the transformation this old railway line has undergone. Trees, gardens, water features and al fresco seating abound as we explore further along the walkway and with the hot sunshine and blue skies casting everything in a summery glow it's a lovely end to our trip.

We disembark at 14th Street, sign in to the House and sink into the air-conditioned comfort of the Clubhouse Bar. Simon orders a refreshing beer but it's delivered with enormous slices of lime that don't quite fit into the bottle. He forces one down the neck of the beer, frothing madly as it goes and cooing with pleasure as he pops it in.

After lunch we head back to the Marcel, pick up our luggage and walk outside to our waiting car for the transfer to Newark airport. I take a shot of Simon by our stretch-limo only to realise that we've not been blessed with a rock-star vehicle but instead have the somewhat less auspicious sedan parked behind.

The three of us cram onto the back seat and set off to the airport, only to hit horrific traffic just a
few blocks later. The combination of Sunday afternoon in Manhattan and Mother's Day in America means there's gridlock across the whole lower half of the island and we limp forward, inches at a time, trying to get to the Holland Tunnel and the road to Newark.

Our driver keeps flicking through radio channels that pump out big disco beats, but the sweltering heat and atrocious traffic have set us on edge and these throbbing pop hits start to wind us up, increasing the nervousness we feel as our flight time creeps closer and closer and we're still stuck in a never-ending jam. When we can take it no more Simon asks for the radio to be silenced, digs out his iPad and sticks on a bit of Fleetwood Mac to chill us out.

After an hour of painful progress, enlivened by us singing along to 'Rumours' we eventually enter the tunnel and pick up speed, emerging into the bleak industrialised heatrland of New Jersey.

It takes just fifteen minutes to race from here to the airport and we get there in time, heading
straight through security, only to have Simon pulled out of the queue and marched into a detention room for questioning.

He may look like a party-loving rock'n'roller but he's not foolish enough to risk the wrath of
Homeland Security with any nefarious activity so asks why he's been singled out. The answer is quite ludicrous; his trousers are hanging low, marking him out as an undesirable. "But you told me to take my belt off!!" he exclaims in disbelief, a point they find impossible to argue with and send him on his way to join us by the gate.

Traumatised by the thought of a rubber glove and cavity search, we head for the only eaterie in the terminal, which is a tiny bar and fast food restaurant. Having not used Newark in years I'd forgotten how terrible it is for any pre-flight enjoyment, and our dinner consists of red wine
served in Stella Artois glasses, orange juice and Pepperoni Pizza crackers billed as "the
perfect hunger management snack".

"Are you sure they're fit for human consumption?" I ask, "they look like dog food." And taste like it too, horrible dried vileness with a centre so artificial it could have been processed in a munitions factory. The only answer is a narcoleptic dessert of sleeping pills and melatonin to get us through the flight.

Seven hours of red-eyed grimness lies ahead of me before I go straight from Heathrow into the office. And within days the plan is to be right back at Terminal 3 heading east to the roaring
tiger that is China, on a heavy metal adventure. Let's hope the dog food doesn't turn out to be a real canine feast when we land in Shanghai...