I'm always astonished at the Big Smoke. There are always things going on or complete seizure, and I love the contra indications all over the place. Like the beggar sleeping in the arcade at the Ritz. Did he tell his mates he slept at the Ritz?
Then there's the tin of beans being confiscated at Luton. Why? Clearly a bomb.
Serious teas in serious hotels are a joy - most places you have to reserve nowadays. In the past, THE place was the Basil - best value meal in town, and in such an eccentric surrounding. Sadly no longer with us.
But the greatest joy was our somewhat recherche hotel-type establishment - now entirely run by delightful Polish girls - and one young man who could be anything except British. He's probably Polish.
Anyway,having stayed there a time or two we are reasonably well known. Unfortunately, as I am a clumsy old git, I managed to knock the ceramic pot off the shelf in the bathroom onto the top of the cistern, and broke the corner off it. That's the corner of the cistern. And a big crack across the rest of it.
Sighing to myself, I made my way to reception and opened with: "I have a sin to confess". Miss Poland's cheery grin disappeared and her brow's knitted. I explained what had happened. Her face cleared, and the smile came back." Is that all? I was thinking you didn't love us any more. As long as you love us then everything is OK."
And the breakage wasn't even on the bill.