I’ve been travelling for almost 24 hours with delays and a stopover by the time I touch down in LA, but despite leaving London on Saturday night, it’s somehow still only Sunday morning. I check into my hotel and am whisked straight upstairs for hair and make-up.

I have to be in my seat by 4.30pm prompt so at 2.45pm I jump into a limo with the editor-in-chief of US Elle Décor, a fellow guest of my hosts, jewellery brand Swarovski.

Within 30 seconds, we’ve established that he’s also Jewish and that his husband’s aunt lives around the corner to me in Finchley, she’s Persian and Mashadi, like my mum’s family. We bond over our love of pelau shirin and gondi, I had not expected Persian cuisine to be part of my red carpet repertoire.

 The six-minute ride takes 45 minutes as we crawl along bumper-to-bumper with fellow Oscar goers. Eventually the door is flung open outside the Dolby Theatre to cheering, flashlights and a hum of excitement. I want to bottle the moment, and so I swirl around with my camera in hand.

The carpet is soggy from an uncharacteristic LA downpour, but after a security check, passport and ticket check, we turn a corner on to the real red carpet, protected by an awning. A roar goes up on the far side and there are whispers that Renée has arrived.

Ahead of me, looking breathtaking in a shimmering, backless, pale pink gown is Molly Simms. Behind a beaded curtain posing for the press, I can see Billy Porter, who is set to open the show.

Upstairs, I dash to the toilet before the ceremony. Someone wishes the woman in front of me good luck. I ask what she’s nominated for, safely assuming it’s for costume or sound.

She says it’s not her who’s been nominated, at which point Greta Gerwig, standing with her back to me (and whose film Little Women is up for six nominations) turns around. ‘Oh! Hi! Good luck!’ I say as we head off into the cubicles before I can think of anything sensible to add, like thank you for the article she wrote for my magazine.

A second later, there’s a shout from Greta: ‘There’s no paper! Does anyone have any?’ I snatch a roll and fling it under the cubicle wall, but someone gets there first, so I am neither a Hollywood hero nor in possession of loo roll. Thankfully, I find a spare.

Our seats are less than 20 rows back. Leo, Brad and Charlize are all at the front with Greta, too, next to her husband Noah Baumbach, also nominated for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay for Marriage Story. 
The theatre lights flash and a voice over the tannoy announces we are going live in 10 seconds.

One thing these A-listers know is how to behave in front of the camera, so they stop schmoozing, plonk their bums on seats and the stage lights up. Brad Pitt is the first winner of the night and his voice seems to crack as he pays tribute to the people who have helped him on his journey. (Later I get talking to his former agent, who says he’s “had a tough few years” and that it was a genuinely emotional win for him.)

When the lights come on for the commercial break, everyone is back on their feet. Brie Larson heads over for a chat with Margot Robbie and Brad is hugged by one and all. In the lobby, the drinks are flowing. I’m utterly starving but there is not one morsel of food. What sort of simchah is this?

To cut a three-and-a-half-hour story short, Eminem gets a standing ovation; Elton John performs a dazzling set then dedicates his win to his children; Joaquin Phoenix makes me shuffle in my seat as he shames people who put cows’ milk in their coffee; and Renée Zellweger mutters about learning from our heroes.

By the time Best Picture is announced it feels like the entire theatre (other than possibly Sam Mendes) is rooting for South Korea’s Parasite and the excitement when it wins is unforgettable — a real Hollywood fairy-tale on the Oscar stage.

Next, it’s upstairs to the Governors Ball, where, thankfully, the food is lavish and plentiful — vegetable tagine, maitake mushroom salad and roasted seabass are passed around and there are groaning sushi and mozzarella food stations. Baruch Hashem I’ve been to my fair share of glam parties, but this is another level. It feels like I’m at Madame Tussauds.

Quentin Tarantino is a step in front of me and I spot Laura Dern in the corner, but for some reason, I’m just as excited by the guy next to me, who is wearing a kippah (the second one I’ve spotted). He says he’s been coming to the Oscars in a yarmulke for over 20 years and tells me a story about when a rabbi, Marvin Hier, won an Oscar for best documentary in 1997.

Barry, my new friend, joked to the Oscar winner that they might be able to get a minyan. The rabbi replied: “There’s no question we can get a minyan. But will anyone know how to daven?” A fair assessment of the crowd I would say.

With all the statuettes in the room (all the winners have to come and get their Oscars engraved at the ball) I’m keen to get my hands on one. I see a flash of gold brush past me, but then realise it’s attached to Joaquin Phoenix’s arm. I’m a few Cinemargaritas down (the ball’s speciality cocktails also include Nominees’ Negronis), but I’m not feeling quite that bold.

Thankfully, I’ve met up with my hostess Nadja Swarovski and her husband, who are both charm personified and seem to know everyone in the room.

They introduce me to Jacqueline Durran, Best Costume Designer for Little Women, and she offers me a moment with her chunk of gold. No wonder she’s happy to part with it— it weighs an absolute ton.

At that moment Chrissy Metz passes by and is suddenly part of the conversation, too. I love her as Kate in This Is Us and she gave me goosebumps when she sang on stage during the ceremony, so I try to find something interesting to say. “You were amazing tonight!” I blurt out, which is neither cool nor interesting but thankfully seems to be a good enough conversation starter.

It’s after midnight when I head back at the hotel. But I’ve met someone who can get me in to the Vanity Fair party, the hottest ticket in town, and plan to head back out when I bump into the Swarovski PR. I sit for a quick chat, but fall asleep mid-sentence.

When I stir, I realise I haven’t slept for nearly 24 hours and at that moment I’d literally trample over Brad himself to get to my bed.

 I’m woken up by bright LA sunshine, and I’m laughing at the pictures from the previous night when a FaceTime call comes through.

It’s my three kids, full of excitement to tell me about their Sunday night out — at Strictly Live — and suddenly I have a desperate pang to be back at home with them in my kitchen. I pack my bags and am excited to head back the airport — via Chateau Marmont, of course.

Naomi Greenaway is the deputy editor of the Sunday Telegraph’s Stella Magazine. Follow her on Instagram