We arrive in London.
Zip through Immigration, zip through Customs, zip to the Virgin Revivals lounge for a much-needed shower.
Much-needed because after a night on that allegedly ‘flat’ bed, I WAS a grumpy cow.
Then I got MUCH better with the arrival of my second bacon butty of the day. Cholesterol be damned. This one came with BUTTER and brown sauce. Seriously nom nom nom.
Heathrow Express into the city. No photos as it was boring and showery.
Our destination: the Hilton Paddington, formerly the Great Western something or other. On the plus side, it’s right inside the train station, very convenient, no humping luggage through rainy streets, and there’s a Starbucks right outside the door. On the negative side, it’s a giant soulless chain hotel, raping the planet, homogenizing the travelling experience, etc., etc., etc.
Also on the negative, the bathroom was RIGHT next to the bed. 2, maybe 2 1/2 feet. Right there. Really close.
And even if you can sleep through your partner stumbling in there and putting on the light and making the noises that he is inevitably going to make after pints and a curry, the completely non-light-blocking frosted glass is on some kind of industrial uber-groovy metal rolling flywheels which grind and whrir and are excessively loud.
But I don’t want to whine about hinges (whinge?) too much… there are other minor horrors to share.
In order to get to the closet, the ONE SMALL closet, you have to pass between a REALLY sharp wooden pointy corner and the writing desk’s chair. Which is NOT on wheels. Ummm, why?
I’m able to fit through there, but not comfortably; I have a couple of bruises to show for it (will NOT be posted here or anywhere) and I can only imagine how annoying and difficult it would be for someone even just a bit larger than I am.
Why is the hairdryer attached to the writing desk? I understand the attached part – people are a*holes and will steal anything, but why the writing desk? Why isn’t it in the bathroom? Hmmm?
Why is the tea-tray on the most bottomest shelf it can find? My old knees have a hard time bending all that way down and then lifting both me AND the tray back up. Sigh. Old age is something I would have found a lot easier to deal with when I was younger.
But enough of that. On to the fun part.
PUBS! AND it’s my BIRTHDAY! Whoo hoo. (yes, I know I was just griping about being old and yet I love having birthdays. Go figure.)