As many of you know, I have taken a new job back in the smoke and – so far, so good. I have already had a great bonding dinner with the other girls in my team – lots of wine and cocktails somewhere in the Kings Road, a missed last train home and some rumours of a 4AM finish for some of them? My lips are sealed……
I am slowly working out the company dynamics and trying to blend in while still being at the “haven’t a clue” stage of company knowledge. I have also broken two secure password thingamajiggas that has confounded the IT chappy, spilt coffee down a colleague’s shirt just before his lunch with a client and tripped over my own heel exclaiming “Sh*t!” in front of the Chief Exec and his guest. So, all good. 😀
The downside to it all is the hours. There are many of them. All spent at my desk in London. All spent away from the family. Many more hours than in my previous job. Such is life – I’m happy to be in work and, to be fair, the hours have all been necessary and not just pfaffing about. I cannot complain.
Last night I managed to give myself a break from late night commuting and booked into the newly refurbished Café Royal Hotel which re-opened its doors in Summer 2012. Just off Regent Street, the hotel couldn’t be more convenient and – all credit to them – they have done a spectacular job of it. The lobbies, staircases and quirky Art Deco lifts take you back to a bygone age in the Café’s heyday. It was like entering an episode of Poirot for the evening, watching the needle pointer curve over the halfway mark as the ancient-looking elevator ascended through the floors. Polite and penguin-like staff are EVERYWHERE. You cannot move without someone wishing you a good evening or safe travels. Eh? I just walked here from down the road. No matter. If they start to gather in the hallways in groups just punch them gently out of the way. It’s the hospitality industry, they’re used to it.
Once inside the rooms, however, all thoughts of penguin-punching vanish. The world and its demands fades away as you take in your sumptuous surroundings. There is apparently a selection of more “blokey” style rooms – Mansard they call them – all wood panelling and musky scented but I didn’t get to see those on my short tour. No matter as I am, in fact, a girl. Yes, its true and not a cross-dressing version of me. So I had booked into a Portland room – beautifully furnished with every modern convenience, according to the brochure and with walls cloaked in smooth stone. Sounds odd but it really works and you feel…..safe, sort of cocooned for some odd reason.
Un-flipping-believably, I was upgraded. No bog-standard Port-a-potty room for me. Oh no. I was to be the jammy-bugger one-night owner of a fabulous junior suite! The place was bigger than my house. Ri-di-cu-lous. With its own sitting room, kitchenette with coffee machine and a bathroom big enough to hold the cast of Les Mis, it wasn’t half bad I can tell you. I could have moved the family and a couple of stray dogs into it, no trouble.
I struggled a bit with all the electronics – I am challenged in the techy department as we know. Having stupidly stripped off my dress first, I tried to shut the drapes by button and instead managed to open the sheer curtains and give the offices opposite a wonderful view of me in my bra and knicks at the naked window. Sorry peeps. Not intentional.
Having ducked down behind a pink leather chair, I fumbled my way to the perfect curtain state and then tackled the lighting. This is all at midnight, dear friends, several rums up and with thumbs that would not respond to direct instruction. The lights, I finally discovered, worked by simply stroking them. *As do I – note to Man-Hog.* How marvellous. But best of all was the B&O TV which, if you get your thumbs to behave on the controls, turns to face you wherever you are in the room and booms its little movie-playing heart out through fab surround-sound speakers.
Having tried out all the nice smelly bottles of goodies in the bathroom and resisted raiding the mini-bar, I finally decided to hit the hay. In a bed the size of Africa. It was H-UUUUUUU-GE. I felt like a hobbit in a B&B. Supremely comfortable and with Frette linens – aaaahhhhh. You fellow textile fetishists will understand. It was an absolute pleasure to starfish inelegantly and still have room to roll over three times and not fall off. I’m getting me one of those beds. And a punchable penguin to say good morning to me on demand.
Considering its central location, you honestly couldn’t hear anything from the streets outside or from the hallways. It was actually a shock when the alarm woke me up this morning. After a dip in the marble bath which was more like swimming than washing, I got myself dressed and regretfully left this oasis of calm and opulence. Back to reality tonight alongside the Man-Hog, snorting, wheezing and gurning his way through the night altogether far too close to me and in a bed nothing like the one at the Café. Ah well. Marriage is a blessing.
If you get a chance and you’re up on a theatre/shopping trip sometime, try the hotel. There is a restaurant and bar, and a soon-to-be-ready spa and gym. For one night of crazy, over-the-top pampering and quirkiness, it’s well worth the price tag. Don’t ask the price first, it has no truck with economic decline and will only spoil it for you! Enjoy!
Café Royal Hotel
68 Regent Street
London W1B 5EL
Ph: +44 20 7406 3322
Photo Credits: All my own