A few months ago I made the bold and potentially foolish declaration that David and Victoria Beckham were “too LA” for LA. The city had changed, I argued. It’s all espresso bars and hybrid cars now. The only thing conspicuous about Al Gore’s Hollywood is thrift: it’s no place for a footballer and his seven Ferraris.

Well, I was wrong. The realisation came at the weekend, as the Beckhams signed the contract on their new $22 million home in Beverly Hills. As a neighbourly gesture of goodwill (and I mean neighbourly in the broadest possible sense, given the seven-mile distance between Beckingham Palace: The Sequel and Ayres Manor), I decided to do a bit of furniture shopping on their behalf. After all, the Posh family have only a couple of a months to get their home ready – not long, when you have a penchant for his 'n’ hers thrones.

My first stop was a new store called Living Green in Culver City. Where better to prepare the carbon-emitting Beckham for his new lifestyle as bumper-stickered, Prius-owning Angeleno? But there was a problem: Living Green was so green that the recycled sofa in the middle of the showroom wasn’t actually for sale: the environmental consequences of buying it were presumably too dire. Fortunately, there were other items on offer: among them a recycled TV cabinet and attic insulation made from denim. As for delivery, I didn’t dare ask: perhaps they strap your recycled coffee table to an ox and herd it on to the 10 freeway.

It seemed that Living Green was a bit of a gimmick. So what is a former Spice Girl to do, especially when she has the Cruises to impress? After a few more stops, ruled out on grounds of ubiquity (Ikea), good taste (Design Within Reach), order time (everything on Beverly Boulevard) and effort (the Wertz Brothers flea market), I found myself at a place called Arte de Mexico in North Hollywood – famous for supplying both movie studios and stars with imported rarities (500-year-old palace doors from India, antique chandeliers, Czech gargoyles, etc).

My salesman ushered me into a back room. Leaning against the wall were the giant wooden parapets of an imaginary castle – a backdrop perhaps, for a new Walt Disney adaptation. “Actually, no,” coughed the salesman. “It’s a headboard. For an all-new size of bed: a Double-California-King.”

Now, as all bed-shoppers know, a full-size bed is pretty big. A Queen is huge. A King is just silly, and a California King is the size of one of Jupiter’s moons. A Double-California-King, meanwhile, requires a custom mattress, custom bed sheets and a staff of eight to change them. I found myself trying to imagine the cigar-blowing, orgy-throwing movie executive responsible for such a abomination. Then a thought struck me. “Who ordered it?” I asked. The salesman shrugged: “All I know is that it’s being delivered to Beverly Hills.”

David Beckham, welcome home.

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