Our latest sojourn in London was prompted by an email from The Cavendish London last October. We don't claim any extensive knowledge of London hotels, but some time ago we decided that The Cavendish was "our" hotel, and we have stayed there many times. Of course, when we first started visiting we were both working, and London hotel prices had not yet gone through the roof. Nowadays, as retired gentlefolk in more straitened times, we tend to restrict our visits to those occasions when the hotel emails us to announce a sale on room prices...
Having consulted diaries and identified a suitable date for the minimum two-night stay required by the offer, we checked to see what would be 'on' while we were in the capital, and discovered that our visit would coincide with a David Hockney retrospective at Tate Britain. The later realisation that the gallery would also be hosting an exhibition by Paul Nash at the same time was a cherry on the trifle. The even later realisation that the Royal Academy exhibition America After the Fall: Painting in the 1930s was opening on the day that we were due to leave London, and that we would have time to visit it before catching our train, was then a sparkler stuck in the cherry...
And so, with hotel, exhibitions and trains all booked, bags packed and an air of expectation about us, we arrived at Leicester station at 09.30 - where we encountered Doris. The departures board appeared to show every single train as "delayed" or "cancelled", and a quick check confirmed that no trains were running into London following the collapse of a power line. What to do? "How important is it that you get to London today?", we were asked. With non-refundable hotel and exhibition bookings we expressed a strong desire to travel. "Get the first available train to Nuneaton", we were told, "and then get the first available train from there to Euston". So we did. Except we didn't.
I suppose there were colder places in the UK than Nuneaton station that morning, but probably not many. With so many travel plans in disarray, the waiting rooms were packed and we elected to stand on the platform for the 30 (and then 45 and then 60) minutes until our connection arrived. But wait - we were told that the 10.46 from Nuneaton would get us to Euston, and now the board was saying that the (much delayed) 10.46 would terminate at Rugby. Perhaps there were two 10.46s from Nuneaton? There were not - an announcement informed us that the service had been suspended due to the presence of "a fifteen foot shed on the line".
Once again consulting the hard-pressed railway staff we were advised to get the first train to Coventry and then change there for the first train to Euston. So we did - eventually; a UK-wide speed limit of 50mph was being enforced on all rail lines.
And so finally we arrived at Euston. I'm sure that I was not the only passenger tempted to break into loud applause for the driver on our (eventual but safe) arrival. However, recalling that we were not American, we simply stiffened our upper lips and waded out onto the platform to whatever greeted us - which was this.
Adopting the demeanour of chirpy but ultimately doomed Brooklyn GIs in a 1950s war film we put our heads down, thrust our bags in front of us and charged: "Coming through. Make a hole. Hey Mac - get outta the way!".
Our taxi got us to The Cavendish at precisely the time we were supposed to be entering the Hockney exhibition. Kudos and gratitude, then, to the young lady in the Tate Britain box office who answered my call, consulted her supervisor and agreed to swap our tickets for 10.30 the next morning - even though the advance-sales allocation for that day had already been filled.
With hunger and the effects of 6 hours travelling beginning to take its toll, we headed out of the hotel in search of sustenance. Not that it was much of a search - in such circumstances only one place would do - Bodeans.
One of the myriad ways in which I am so lucky in my choice of life partner is that, although she herself has mature tastes and a refined palate, Amanda is always happy to indulge my love of food of a somewhat humbler nature. And so it was that we found ourselves in the basement, tucking into a "jumbo hot dog and fries" (Amanda) and the "burnt ends and pulled pork combo with fries" (me) - as well as an extra portion of fries, ostensibly "for the table" but in reality for me alone (it had been that sort of day).
Sated, we eventually rolled out into Soho and thence to Piccadilly. At Hatchards we had a good mooch and I picked up a signed early birthday present for Amanda (don't panic - it's an early purchase, not a secret one).
And so to bed.
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