Werewolves of London

Grasshoppers, yesterday was our last day 'on the road' before returning to old London town.  This morning, battling bitter winds and snow flurries, we drove the 45 metres from our Cambridge motorway motel to the handy BP carwash, only to the find it was out of service.  Good-oh, we'd return our Hertz hire car slightly soiled, but relieved it was not slightly damaged.  Or even substantially damaged.  Top work after 1600 miles (these philistines use miles not kms) and several dozen near misses.

Despite our best efforts to avoid the Cambridge CBD, we yet again found ourselves on its Formula One racing track.  But we made it to Hertz Cambridge eventually, and after several deep breaths and a martini, boarded the train for London.

Endsleigh Court, where we spent our first splendid week, would not have us back as we are only here for two nights before flying home. So we took our business to the nearby Tavistock Hotel, thinking its splendid art deco foyer (left) was indicative of the standard of its rooms.  But alas, no. And despite the promise of WiFi (which we assumed meant in each room) it was confined to the foyer and bar, so this post is being typed in the bar, where Geoff and I have already had quite a skinful.     


But back to our room.  Note the position of our telly. 


This boxy 1985-vintage TV  is bolted down (presumably there's a market for them) and will necessitate a neck brace if viewing is undertaken for more than 20 minutes at a stretch.  Of course, this is all academic, as the bastard doesn't work.

But!  There is a god after all. Because we do have a functioning......








trouser press.  Whatever would we do without it?  I particularly like the way it is in the main thoroughfare in our room and you only graze your knee on it once an hour or so. 

And now some news from Mr Geoffy, who has been very slack with his correspondence: 

"London is freezing cold and blowing a southerly buster.  A leisurely stroll didn't seem like a good idea so we did the
 only sensible thing and repaired to a London pub, specifically the Marquis Cornwallis.  It may even be the equal second best pub in the world, but that's a subject for conjecture and vigorous academic debate.  Regardless, it's out of the elements and passably convivial."

Thanks for that, Geoffy.  (He's my man!!)

And finally, look at the warp and weft of these towels:

As my mother, the splendid Nancye Ackroyd (nee Hall) would say: You could shoot peas through them. \

Even the cheapo Travelodge could do better than this!


In high dudgeon,

Great Aunt Adenoid XXXXX

ps Forgot why we called this post 'Werewolves of London' - an otherwise ordinary chap walked by our window dressed as a werewolf.  And we're in London.  ergo...