Kitchen sinks and room service

Last Saturday morning we enjoyed The Shaftesbury Premier London Paddington Hotel’s breakfast once more, the only difference being that we were sitting listening to Sally Morgan on the next table the whole time. The woman at the next couple was with another lady and her voice just seemed to ring through the dining area, the same accent and tones as Fulham born Sally Morgan, or ‘Psychic Sally’ supposedly Britain’s best loved psychic. The only difference was this woman was not pretending to be talking to dead people, only the taller, glammed up woman sitting next to her and she talked on and on about how she was content with her life, how she felt that she was quite happy without a man and how her cat had died.
“Did you not know Jeffar had died?” she asked of her friend, shocked. If she had been Sally Morgan she may not have moaned so much about her cat dying as she’d still be able to talk to him.
The breakfasts in the hotel were great though. Full English breakfasts, all laid out in big silver trays, buffet style. Sausages, eggs, hash browns, you name it. Along with the healthier options of course of fruit yoghurts, fruit juices, toast and croissants you were each given a whole pot of the caffeine preference of your choice. All fantastic. And for us still free, due to the ‘inconvenience’ of the hotel moving us.
The whole stay was pretty damn close to being the best hotel stay I’ve ever had anywhere. The only complaint I’d have would be the single glazed windows which enabled us to hear the constant drone of traffic from the busy street outside. Not that you noticed it so much after a while as you lay on the bed on top of all the quilt layers, pillows and cushions, watching all the television programmes you’d never usually watch at home, whilst drinking all the tea and coffee sitting alongside the kettle, eating all the biscuits, eating all the fruit you’d picked up from the buffet table at breakfast time, using as much toilet paper as you liked and nonchalantly throwing towels about on the bathroom floor when you were finished with them, knowing full well that everything would be back to it’s neat and tidy state by the time you got back in the evening.
Saturday afternoon was cloudier but still dry as Ka and myself made our way to the Ambassadors Theatre to see Stomp.
Stomp is a popular theatre production of dance, rhythm, noise, a little more rhythm and a lot more noise. The production is not a story but a variety of different scenes with the performers and set design all dressed giving the impression of the setting being in some sort of junkyard. The scenes all involve the participation of eight dancers who perform with no, or very little speech, using only the noises and tunes they make to create music using only various everyday objects such as bins, tubes, tins, newspapers and even kitchen sinks. Such scenes involved the clacking of a wooden brush against the ground, for example, the thumping of a trash can, the banging of a giant rubber ring or the emptying of a kitchen sink full of water, (which is not particularly good if you’re now suffering the after effects of a couple of pints).
It was a great show, admittedly not one I would have rushed to see before, but Ka had always wanted to see it, probably because it was all based around people brushing up, using dustbins and tidying rubbish away whilst making as much noise as possible. If you were to sit and close your eyes whilst in the theatre it almost reminded me to waking up on a normal morning in Kenilworth listening to Ka rattling about the kitchen. Or those moments on the couch when you’re trying to watch an episode of Spooks and Ka decides it’s a great time to clean the kitchen cupboards out.
Before hand we’d went for an afternoon tipple in The Marquis of Granby, just across the road from the big, old Palace Theatre, currently adorned in colourful, open umbrellas for the running production of Singin’ in the Rain. A cackle of older ladies sat at the window table to the side of us, all downing the wine and gabbling like geese, prime suspects for the Singin’ in the Rain show. A couple in the other corner rowed quietly. Arguing over the menu with fierce eyes and the odd comment muttered through gritted teeth.
We had had to seek out the theatre early and managed to get lost in the West End streets in the effort, after Adventure Ted made another brief appearance in Trafalger Square under Nelson, we got momentarily sidetracked in Charing Cross Station and we spotted more Faberge Easter eggs.
We eventually found the small theatre on the corner of a block in the middle of West Street just across from the Club of the Ivy, which we recognised as the restaurant that week’s winners of The Apprentice had just dined in a couple of nights before. After finding the theatre we wandered off for a stroll and got lost once more and ended up milling around the town looking for somewhere to get an afternoon drink when we eventually found the Marquis of Granby. As I ordered our drink I asked the barmaid if she had any idea where the Ambassadors Theatre was.
“Go out there and turn left” she frowned slightly at me over the taps. I quickly went back out into the narrow street outside and looked down to see the familiar white fronted theatre not sixty meters away. That was handy, I thought, considering our circular route around the West End.
If you don’t know the West End well it would be easy to get lost in, going round in circles, through the streets filled with their shops, boutiques, small galleries, coffee shops, theatres and pubs.
After the show, and a quick walk around Covent Garden, at which we seen the largest paella known to man, an abundance of silk scarves and some artwork by Bob Dylan and Billy Connelly, we enjoyed a meal in Spaghetti House, served by Sacha Baron Cohen. The tall, dark waiter with the large eyes and high forehead serving our meals grinned from ear to ear at Ka all the while gesticulating with his hands whilst shouting in his thick, almost exaggerated Italian pronunciation. He looked very much like Baron Cohen in yet another cartoon like extremist character. Ka and myself had to have a quick look around for other actors and hidden cameras but seen only the other far more stressed looking staff members, all running around the restaurant floor in the Saturday night rush all putting on the same, overly pleasant but less enthusiastic or actorly performances on for their own tables.
The next day we were back at Euston, jumping on the train back to Glasgow Central, our weekend trip coming to an end but with a whole other week off lying ahead. Unfortunately there’d be no more Shaftesbury breakfasts or room service but as I awoke on Monday morning to the sound of Ka in the kitchen and a glass of orange juice on the bedside table waiting for me I thought, there’s no place like home.