Stacy, front row at the Comedy Store

A tall woman walks into a hotel bar. It is not the start of a joke, although Stacy would happily make it one. At 176 cm and slim she clears most crowds by a head, near black brown hair falling long down her back, brown eyes lit with mischief. Her style is edgy nightlife glamour: something metallic, a sharp blazer, boots with a heel that adds height she hardly needs. Early twenties, Chelsea based, and bold enough to own every inch of it.

Spontaneous is her operating system. Stacy says yes to plans before hearing the details and usually improves them. Street photography keeps her out after dark with a small camera, catching neon, strangers' hands, shadows on wet pavements. Snowboarding pulls her up a mountain each winter she can manage. Stand-up comedy is the obsession; she has sat through more open mic nights than most comics. Her English is quick and funny, her timing sharp, and she can make a stiff business traveller laugh within a minute.

Her West End night centres on The Comedy Store just off Piccadilly Circus. Pick her up at your hotel at nine, walk over for the late show, sit close enough to be at risk, and let her laugh loudest. Afterwards a drink in a hotel bar where she retells the best set better than the comedian did, then back upstairs, where the jokes slow down and the conversation gets surprisingly honest. Short notice rarely bothers her; she is often ready before you finish typing the message.

She takes same night bookings across the West End. Check the rates, then message the desk the moment the idea strikes.