The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Paris and London
After a few weeks of meticulous planning, booking and
utmost secrecy, the plot was almost ready but required a few additions to link
things together. Hence the following e-mails to Boyfriend’s brothers.
I would be most grateful if you could help me out
with a few logistics for Boyfriend's birthday. I know that his birthday isn't
until September, but we're all very busy people so I thought lots of notice
would be no bad thing.
I have arranged lots of stuff as a surprise for him
which is basically as follows:
Friday 19th - get up very very early, take taxi to Southampton and fly to Paris Paris
Saturday 20th - fly to Heathrow from Paris arriving
at Heathrow at 8.30am (9ish by the time we're out of customs etc), head into
London and go on the London Eye, up Big Ben and then off to the Ritz for Tea
along with a birthday cake and the pianist playing him happy birthday resulting
in suitable embarrassment etc., then come home where Boyfriend has
inconsiderately got a gig booked with his band.
My teeny problem is this:
- transport from Heathrow into London and
subsequently back home,
- you can't take much more than a wallet into the
Houses of Parliament (so need somewhere to dump luggage)
- and we need smart stuff for the Ritz as there is a
dress code.
I have talked over some of the problem with Boyfriend
- without giving too much away (although I did tell him about Paris, partly b'cos
I'm really bad at keeping secrets, partly b'cos I was very drunk at the
time and partly b'cos he knows Paris much better than me and as we only have a
day there it would be sensible if he had been able to pre-plan what to do and
where to go to make the most of the day - and restaurants).
He suggested that I approach you boys to see if it
was at all possible, with large amounts of grovelling, to get you to drive his
car (which will have smart stuff in for us to change into) and one of your cars
to Heathrow on Saturday morning, leave us with his car which we will then use
to go into London, leave luggage in, and come home in while you trundle back in
the other car you brought up - if that makes any sense at all.
If you give away any of the planned stuff for
Saturday - which Boyfriend knows nothing of - then obviously I will have to do
nasty things to you.
If some, more or fewer of you can help in any way
that would be smashing and much appreciated and you might even qualify for a
piece of freshly made Ritz raspberry and mango birthday cake as I’m sure we
won't be able to eat all of it.
And just be thankful that it's not a significant
birthday, when I really will go over the top.’
After all of them came back with offers of
assistance where required, the plot thickened as follows:
‘Cheers
chaps for offers of help all round.
Basically
what I will need is:
Someone
who is happy to drive Boyfriend's car -
hereafter called driver 1 - to drive this up to Heathrow terminal 2 to be there
at approx 9am on Saturday 20 September to meet me & Boyfriend, who will be
heavily laden with sensibly priced alcohol, French lingerie and well considered
gifts. We can arrange nearer the time to leave his car with driver 1 on the
evening of Thursday 18th if this makes things easier, rather than having to get
to our place to pick it up.
There
will then need to be another person, preferably inside a car and imaginatively
called driver 2, following driver 1 to Heathrow to bring back driver 1 once we
have been re-united with Boyfriend's car and driven it off.
Naturally
the X chromosome in me means that I want to be incredibly bossy, dictate where
each of you is to be at any particular moment, give you itineraries and code
names, maintain radio contact at all times and synchronise watches etc.
However,
as I am reliably informed that you're all grown up people I will leave it to
you boys to sort out who wants to do what.
Boyfriend
is aware that I have asked for your assistance with travel arrangements, so it
is ok to discuss finer details either with him, or when he's around.
We
will be free on his actual birthday which is on Sunday, and will have Stepchild
the Elder & Stepchild the Younger that day - and probably more birthday
cake so that the girls can make themselves sick - so if any of you were
particularly wanting to see what he looks like at 42 you are more than welcome
to pop round on Sunday.'
The
day arrived. At 4.00am the alarm went off and at 4.30 Middle Bro arrived to take us to
the airport. So far the plan was going with military precision. We arrived at
Southampton airport much in need of coffee and breakfast but were to be
thwarted in any plans to address this need. Nothing at the airport opens until 5.30am – including
passport control. We were due to board at 6.00am, so when the passport control
opened we decided to go straight through and use the airside café, which we
assumed also opened at 5.30am. The tiny flaw with this plan is that we were
wrong. The airside café was not yet open.
Fortunately,
after a wait of a few minutes, it did indeed start up business for the day and Boyfriend
and I plied ourselves with coffee and sandwiches.
For
reasons that were never explained, the plane was delayed by about half an hour, which meant we had given ourselves indigestion quite unncessarily.
After
an uneventful flight – during which I woke Boyfriend up to show him the French
coastline – we arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport. The plane then proceeded
to taxi for about 15 minutes to the terminal. For a moment Boyfriend and I
wondered if it would be kind enought to keep going and drop us off at the hotel.
We
had decided to get a taxi from the airport to the Eiffel Tower – and the vehicle we ended up was a black
Mercedes. And every time we went through a tunnel I got a bit nervous (that whole speeding Mercedes-tunnel-dead Diana situation crossing my mind). The
driver was flashed by a speed camera, and Boyfriend engaged in a very
complicated conversation – in French – about the difference between the English
and French speeding penalties. From the very little that we understood, it
seems the French are penalised a lot more.
Seeing
the Eiffel Tower ahead and realised we must be nearly there. We then
inadvertently over tipped the driver – the fare was around €39. I gave the
driver a €50 note, but Boyfriend – thinking I had given him €40 – told him to
keep the change. Now feeling rather flush, and with some of his speeding penalty already covered, the driver then leapt forth to open
the doors for us before proceeding on his merry way in the hope of finding more foolish English people.
We
joined the queue for the Eiffel Tower, which so far included a just about tolerable
amount of Americans and vast numbers of Orientals – one of whom was wearing
more check than should really be seen at any one time on one person.
All around the edge of Paris was a thick
layer of smog, and I remembered that on the taxi ride we had passed signs
advising drivers to slow down because of pollution levels. Apart from that, it
was incredibly clear, a beautiful blue-skied hot day, and we could see all
across the city, and all the things we hoped to see.
We
were starting to discover an rather irritating feature about the French. In all
the countries Boyfriend and I have visited, everyone has seemed very pleased
when you try to speak their language – even if this actually makes it harder to
understand one another than if you spoke in English. Here, however, the French
stubbornly refused to understand anything you said in French. After query made in perfectly competent French They would ask
in English what it was that we wanted with a tone of ‘I can speak your
language far better than you could ever speak mine’. This was probably the place where I shouldn’t be verbally
rude about the French. Boyfriend had said that it would be ok if I did it in
English, but I pointed out to him that actually I would probably be less understood
if I insulted them in French. They were now confirming that view point.
We
continued on up to the 3rd and top level, fighting our way through
the crowds around the viewing platform before taking the lift back down to the
2nd level. From here we walked down the steps to the 1st
level (during which we passed a young man re-painting, and a drop of Eiffel
Tower paint fell onto Boyfriend’s shirt which never ever washed out).
Having seen all that really can be seen of the Eiffel Tower we crossed the Seine and ambled up to the Arc de Triomphe, built in honour of the French victory at the battle of Austerlitz.
We
wanted to go to the top, but Boyfriend said he only would if there were lifts –
and we reckoned there probably would be. Having bought the tickets and thereby committed ourselves, we went to
the entrance where a sign announced the number of steps we would climb to get
to the top. There was, in other words, no lift. We started the climb up the
spiral staircase. This opened out a couple of times into rooms, fooling you
into thinking you were nearly there. But round the corner the steps carried on
again.
Eventually
we reached the top, and again admired the views. We got our breath back,
and cooled down a little – a very little as it was still incredibly hot, even in the breeze on
the top – then came back down again and proceeded to walk along the Champs
Elysees. We paused at a café mid way along for a cool drink beneath the trees.
Continuing
our perambulation, we walked down to the Place de la Concorde – the site of
hundreds of executions during the French Revolution. The lives of royalty still
don’t seem to be all that safe in Paris, although the method of despatch has changed.
The
square itself is surrounded by huge, ornate buildings that were once the Royal
residences. Now it is little more than a large roundabout, a reminder of the
hustle and bustle of city life before you enter the calm tranquillity of the
Tuilleries Gardens. There was an ice cream kiosk in the gardens where Boyfriend
and I treated ourselves to a vanilla cone – real vanilla, with the black bits
in. None of your Wall’s nonsense here.
The
gardens were wonderfully peaceful. Parisians were sitting in chairs around a
pond, sunning themselves, others wandered around the sculptures that littered
the gardens, or sat in cafes for a drink and a snack. At the end of the gardens was another Arc –
again to celebrate the French victory at Austerlitz, which was designed so that
the main arch faced that of its big brother – L’Arc de Triomphe – a couple of
miles away.
From
there we crossed the Seine again, and walked towards the Pantheon – our plan
now being to obtain some lunch, although it was well passed lunch time. The
streets of the south bank of the Seine were filled with booksellers and art
prints. This part of Paris – the Latin Quarter – was a bit off the tourist
track and merged into university zone, which was largely responsible for the maintenance of a relaxed, Bohemian feel to the area. There were street cafes filled with locals, and charming back streets
with accordion players. At one point, across the Seine, I saw a topless young
man sitting in the sun on the steps down to the river playing guitar.
Ahead
of us was Musee d’Orsay which had been a railway terminus in a previous life.
Apparently the inside of the museum has retained the railway look, even down to
the clock. Unaware of this marvel, however, we didn’t venture inside at all,
and walked off in the opposite direction.
We
saw a sign for a post office, and needing stamps to accompany our postcards,
followed where it pointed. Here Boyfriend scored a significant victory. He
asked – in French of course – for some stamps. And the chap behind the counter
had to ask him what country they were for, and actually asked the question in
French – America? Italy? Boyfriend very proudly said England.
The
streets whereh we were walking had bookshops every few paces and the reason for this
soon became clear as we stumbled upon the educational heart of Paris. In a
square there were students sitting around while another group of students had
formed a string ensemble and were playing Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik –
extremely well. It seemed an almost impromptu performance. We stopped for a
moment to listen, and rest our legs.
We
went to the Pantheon, and popped our head inside it for a moment. This was the
burial place of, among others, Victor Hugo and Voltaire. The Pantheon itself
was built as a gesture of thanks by Louis XV, so relieved was he to recover
from illness in 1744. Ironically he was long dead by the time it was completed,
and shortly after its completion it became a temple to the Revolution. It has
been reconsecrated twice but is now a state monument.
Part
of the reason we had come to this part of the city was that there was a
basement 'cave' restaurant that Boyfriend particularly wanted me to see. It was, in
the event closed, but we were able to peer through the doors and see the steps
down the restaurant grotto.
With the original plan foiled, instead we
settled for a café halfway down the hill which seemed to be still serving food,
and had a large area outside in which to sit. The waiter bounded over to us – Boyfriend
ordered two beers. Knowing that in France there is no such thing as pints and
half pints (the French insisting on being metric), he ordered two large beers.
For
a moment we were unsure if the waiter had understood – but then we realised he
had understood perfectly, and we had in fact not understood his acknowledgement
of the order – a very fast and very French ‘Oui Monsieur’.
A
few minutes later he appeared carrying two glasses of beer and put them down
with a flourish and yelp of excitement as if to say, 'Yippee here’s your much
needed beer' It was a stein! I could barely lift it up.
The
waiter was a character. Dressed in blue check dungarees and with short, fluffy
blonde hair he looked like a 6 foot baby and bounced around with the same sort
of energy that you would expect from a toddler. Boyfriend referred to him as
Andy Pandy. From then onwards, this cafe was referred to by as Andy Pandy's.
We
perused the photographs that had been taken so far on the digital camera – a
small gift from me to Boyfriend, who was making considerable ingress into the
capacity of the memory card. And also getting through a lot of batteries.
Anticipating a large dinner, we ordered a couple of salads for lunch. Boyfriend even
managed another stein of beer, practising for the Munich beer festival a couple
of weeks hence. We didn’t have dessert, but did look at the menu. It included
crème caramel which was translated as 'egg pudding baked in the oven until
brown', which didn’t make it sound nice.
The
bouncy waiter took a photo of us and, when returning the camera, dropped it –
the look on our faces for the seconds until we realised he was holding the cord
must have been incredible, and rather amusing.
We
sat there for a while, enjoying the rest and the late afternoon sun, soaking up
the atmosphere of what could be called ‘real’ Paris, away from the tourists.
The other customers were in fact all French, many of them local students. It
was quiet and peaceful and romantic. At the time I nearly got quite emotional
about it.
The
dungareed waiter seemed to have vanished, and been replaced with a black
trouserered, white shirted man who was very dour. But then emerging into view, pushing a shopping
trolley, up the hill, bulging with 2 litre coca cola bottles was our man.
We
wrote our postcards before getting too drunk and then decided to move on, wandering
back down the hill to the river.
On
the way we found a post box. Like many European post boxes, it had two slots –
one for the city, and one which quite literally translated as ‘other strange
places’. Into other strange places went our postcards.
According to our plan for the day, all that remained was to see Notre Dame and then head towards the hotel. I was very surprised that we had achieved so much already. We had walked a few miles, but as we weren’t pressing on (the heat alone prohibited that) we were stunned at the amount of ground we had covered, and the number of things we had seen.
We
crossed onto Ile de la Cité – settled by Celts around 250 BC who were
subsequently pushed out by the Romans. The Romans fortified the island which
remained the seat of French political power until the 14th century
when Charles V moved his court to the Louvre. On this island stands Notre Dame.
Much of the exterior stonework must have been replaced judging by the very
different states of ageing and general decay.
In
order to avoid too much papism being absorbed we scuttled out again.
Our
next destination was a Metro station to take us to the hotel. On the way I reached
into my bag to consult the map. I never heard the doorman we passed calling to
us. But Boyfriend did. And turned round to see what it was about. It seemed we
had dropped something. Not overly concerned, I let Boyfriend go back and see
what I had accidentally pulled out of my bag. It was my passport. I realised at
the time how lucky I had been and how I would have felt when I discovered its
loss later on.
Having
negotiated our way onto the Metro without any trouble we relaxed until it was our stop. In
one moment of sub terranean semi drunken playfulness Boyfriend held the camera
above his head to take a picture of the carriage behind him. The resulting shot
does include a rather startled young lady in the seat behind us.
Our
hotel was in Villiers. We walked from the Metro through incredible
street markets, selling food that you would struggle to find in any shops in
England – a meat and fish paradise, if you are really into meat and fish that
is.
Once
again we were managing to stray from the tourist trodden path and imbed
ourselves into local life.
We
found the hotel and lay down for a rest before showering and venturing out for
dinner.
Boyfriend
already knew where he wanted to take me for dinner – Julians in Rue de Faubourg
St Denis. The potential problem with this was that the street it was in was
very long, and Boyfriend couldn’t remember whereabouts along it the restaurant
was.
So, aware we needed to potentially walk the length of the road, we
took the Metro to a station near the bottom of Rue St Denis and walked along to
the end of the required street. Eyes peeled for Julians, we made our way along the road. It was now dark. As we were walking I noticed a couple of girls hanging about. And then a
couple more. On the opposite side of the road an occasional man lurked in the unlit doorways of shops that had closed for the day. At exactly the same moment Boyfriend and I realised that these were
prostitutes. And the men were their pimps. There were loads of them. Every few paces. Each with their marked
out spot. Some of them were chatting to their pimps, a few were talking to
potential business. Most of them were young, and very few of them pretty. They
were dressed in anything from jeans to incredibly short skirts and tops that
did gravity defying things with their breasts. One girl had her chest lifted up
to such an extent that her nipples were sticking out above where her clothes
actually started.
It
was interesting and strange – I am not aware of ever having seen a prostitute
before, and to see so many women – many of whom would have sex that night with
complete strangers whom they probably held in contempt – was a peculiar
feeling.
In
the middle of this street was another huge Arc. We didn’t find out what it was
for, but it was just there, unlit and ignored in this semi residential/semi red light area.
The streets were lined with refuse bins, so full that their overflowing contents spilled onto the ground, with
kebab shops and take away pizza places every few yards and a reasonable proportion sex shops - now closed for the day.
Just beyond the Arc was Julians.
A
black, smartly dressed man opened the door for us, and we went in – passing
miraculously into another world. It
was like something from the 1920’s. The ceiling was patterned glass which,
during the day, would let in natural light. Now,
in the evening, it was gently lit by a line of miniature street lamps and round globes
running down the centre of the restaurant. There were hooks on the side of the
lamp posts, from which hung old fashioned hats and scarves.
The
tables were crammed in, red velvet seats and floor length tablecloths. The
waiters were dressed in black waistcoats and bow ties, with crisp white aprons that
went down to their shins. Immaculate aprons, in which you could still see the
fold lines. They carried huge silver trays of food and empty plates on their
shoulder. The noise of customers and service was incredible. And wonderful.
We
ordered some wine and nibbled the bread and olives that were on the table.
Understanding
very little of the menu, we opted for starters of Fois Gras and some terrine
thing – that turned out to be something very tasty and resembled pate.
For
main course I had duck (I knew what canard meant) and Boyfriend had steak. It
was in fact a mini joint, succulent and bleeding. Both meals were absolutely
delicious. It has been said that French cuisine is not what it used to be.
Whoever thinks that should eat at Julians. The food is to die for.
Determined
to do this properly, we opted for dessert. And now we really had a problem.
They were all too nice. I was erring towards crème brulee, but was also a
little tempted by crepes suzette. Boyfriend was torn between a chocolate tart,
something that sounded like it would be chocolate cheesecake, and crepes
suzette with Grand Marnier.
Fatally,
he asked my opinion. I told him to pick the crepes. ‘That’s just so you can try
them’, he told me. ‘No it isn’t’, I replied. ‘Well why shouldn’t I have either
of the others?’ he continued. ‘Well I don’t like chocolatey puddings’ I said.
And immediately wished I hadn’t. This response, it seemed, only confirmed that
I wanted to eat his. What in fact I meant was that as I don’t like chocolaty
desserts I wouldn’t necessarily recommend them for someone else.
But
it was no good. Boyfriend had fallen about laughing. And I was also laughing to
the point of tears.
He
did order the crepes. They were made by the waiter on the dumb waiter behind
us using a huge frying pan over a small gas flame. Once ready, the
crepes were taken out of the pan, folded and put onto a plate. The juice
remaining in the pan, which contained Grand Marnier, was then poured over the
top, set on fire and then put down in front of Boyfriend. I immediately tried a small piece. 'Bloody Hell', I
exclaimed. It was neat Grand Marnier. The French people on the table next to us
giggled. They had heard me swear. They looked at Boyfriend and said ‘I hope
you’re not driving tonight’.
This
dessert alone would put you several times over the limit. There was no way I
could have eaten it and I was feeling a little guilty that I may in some way
have pressured Boyfriend into having it. However, he assured me he loved it,
and did in fact devour all of it, including the strong Grand Marnier sauce.
We
returned to the Metro via other streets – mainly because I needed to find a
post box for our remaining postcard. Nothing to do with vast quantities of
prostitution.
Back
at the hotel we collapsed into a tired and drunken state of unconsciousness,
aware of the 5.00am alarm due the following morning.
We
had had a perfect day.
The
following morning I think it is fair to say that we both felt quite rough.
Primarily due to too much alcohol and not enough soft drinks during the hot
preceding day.
We
went downstairs where we woke the Porter, and let in the taxi driver who
arrived very promptly at 5.30am – and very well turned out too.
At
the airport, we checked in, breakfasted and settled down for a sleep until we
needed to board the plane. The return flight was to Heathrow, and the plane was
consequently much bigger.
The
shy and saggy faced girl at Southampton appeared to have made some error when
she allocated seats for our return journey, as Boyfriend and I had been put at opposite ends of the
row,. The confusion seems to have arisen because she asked we wanted a window or aisle seat. We had replied 'window', assuming there would be one window seat and the one next to it. But in the event, we both had a window seat. I suppose it was our fault for both saying 'Window'. So we upset the whole system by insisting on sitting together, and
therefore taking other people’s seats instead - which shouldn't really have been a problem as the plane wasn't very full. But for a minute or two it got quite
complicated.
We
didn’t particularly need to sit together given that we both slept for the
duration of the flight anyway.
Despite
leaving Paris a few minutes late we arrived in London half an hour early. Middle Bro
was already there, waiting to meet us.
We
drove into London and parked up in an NCP car park that I had already taken the
time to locate. Having changed into clean, and Ritz acceptable clothes, we
walked past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge, discovering that you can’t cross this bridge in less than half an hour due to
the vast numbers of people taking pictures of each other on it, with either the
London Eye or Houses of Parliament as the back ground.
We
arrived at the London Eye early. It looked like it would be a clear day, but
was still a little hazy. So we had a coffee and shared a sandwich before joining
the queue for our flight. I have been on the Eye before, on a November evening.
I was impressed then. And was still impressed now. The views over London are
incredible, and the sheer size and feat of engineering involved is also awe
inspiring.
Once
we ‘landed’ from our flight we went back over the bridge and sat in Victoria
Gardens until it was time for our tour round the Houses of Parliament. Boyfriend
put his head in my lap and slept. It was another baking hot day, but we were
sitting in the shade of the large tree, overlooking the Thames.
At
the allotted time we joined the queue for the Houses of Parliament. I had hoped
the tour would also include going up Big Ben, but it seemed unlikely – and
indeed it would seem that trips up Big Ben don’t appear to happen anymore, or are at
least very very badly advertised.
The
Houses of Parliament tour itself was very interesting. The original Palace of
Westminster, dating back to the time of Edward the Confessor, burned down in
1834 leaving only Westminster Hall and the Jewel Tower. The current building
was constructed from 1840, and in true Victorian style, was designed with
magnificent, sumptuous processions in mind. The throne in the House of Lords is
based on the Coronation Throne in neighbouring Westminster Abbey.
The
wing which contains the House of Commons was in fact hit by a bomb during
WW2 and Churchill commissioned a rebuild of this part of the palace.
Heading
out from the central crossroads of the palace was an area that copied the St
Stephen’s chapel that had once been on that site – although not actually used
as a chapel after the dissolution.
The
tour finished in Westminster Hall, a wonderfully preserved medieval building
that had seen the trials of Thomas More and Charles 1, to name but two. It was
huge, dark, cold and smelled of the wood timbers which supported the roof.
In
the corner was the golden coach which was used for weddings and coronations.
We
went into the Ritz, having been greeted outside by a hatted and coated doorman, and once inside, were directed to Palm Court, and shown to our table.
Palm
Court is pale yellow colours and the ceiling is decorated glass –
like Julians – that lets in the daylight. In the corner a harpist played
continual lilting music. The waiters were dressed in tails and red waistcoats.
We were given the tea menu offering a choice of six teas.
The
tea arrived in huge solid silver teapots, with silver tea strainers and silver
tea strainer holders.
There
was also a silver pot filled with hot water – more to weaken the tea as it
progressively brewed than to refill the pot, although this was largely unnecessary as the pot was regularly refreshed with new tea. Also provided were Ritz emblemed
things to hold the teapot handle with as it gradually warmed up from the hot
tea inside.
Every
detail had been considered.
A
three tiered stand of food appeared. On the bottom plate were fingers of
sandwiches – naturally with the crusts cut off. There was salmon, cucumber,
prawn, ham, egg mayonnaise and cream cheese. There was also flavoured bread –
sundried tomato and a green herb bread as well. Boyfriend and I, ravenously
hungry, devoured the sandwiches with not very graceful speed. We moved rapidly
onto the middle layer – shortbread, fruit cake and scones. Oh yes, on the table
we had jam and clotted cream. I have no idea what flavour the jam was, but I
have never had jam like it.
So
we returned to the sandwiches, and once again, polished them off. By now we
were feeling a little full. We were also drinking a cup of tea every three
minutes.
The
top layer of the stand consisted of hugely rich cakes, a couple of which were topped with a square of
chocolate on which was written Ritz London.
We
managed only three of these cakes – a
mini chocolate cheesecake, and raspberry mouse topped with strawberries
and raspberries, and custard layer. We couldn’t manage the mini lemon meringue,
glazed peach tart or raspberry tart.
Mid
way through this process Boyfriend noticed over to his left that the waiters
were putting candles on a selection of cakes. On his right he noticed the head
waiter signal to the harpist, whose music changed, without a break, to Happy
Birthday as the waiters marched forth with their wares. It was only then that
he suspected one might for him – as indeed it was. The whole room broke into
applause once the birthday tune had finished and Boyfriend was momentarily
embarrassed – and very surprised.
The
cake was freshly made by the Ritz and was three layered, with cream and fresh
mango in one layer and cream and fresh raspberries in the other. The writing on
the top was nothing short of art.
The
waiter, anticipating our every need, and also aware that they needed the room
vacated within about 10 minutes, came round to ask if we wanted anything else.
Replying in the negative, the cake stand was removed – and to my horror we were
brought tiny vanilla crème brulees.
Having
forced this down – it would have been rude not to – the bill was discreetly
brought over, and the sordid business of paying dealt with quickly and
unobtrusively.
Before
leaving we used the facilities – in my case, called the Powder Room. There was
mineral water and ice provided, velvet chairs and mirrors for attending to your
toilet, and piles of fluffy white flannels with which to wash and dry yourself
– not a hand drier or paper towel in site.
Feeling
suitably replete, we made our way out – now carrying a rather fancy Ritz bag
containing rather fancy Ritz cake. We left, walking past people waiting for
the next sitting, and made our way back to the tube, the car and the long drive
home.
After
two early mornings I slept most of the way back. More worryingly, Boyfriend
almost did too.
Overall
we had a fantastic couple of days – Boyfriend graciously admitted it was the
most memorable birthday he had ever had. He has also decided that we ought to
go to Paris for his birthday every year from now on.
The
weekend was in fact a double celebration – my divorce and house sale both
reaching their respective conclusions. It was an ending and a beginning. And
every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.
NOTES
The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.
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