Hello boys and girls, long time no see. Easter has been upon us and I have been flat out with holidays, visits, Easter services and annual general meeting reports. Plus I actually have to let my son on the computer occasionally, although he has made this easy by adopting a protocol of sleeping all day and computer-ing all night. But at last term time is nearly upon us again, sleeping schedules are being knocked back into shape, homework is being trawled through and most of the reports are done. I can blog again.
I left you all hungry in Amsterdam. Now all is left is to board the last 'plane to Heathrow, which was by far the scariest. I do not like flying much to begin with and this journey didn't help. In the last flight I was in seat 21A, the window seat, right on the wing as I have told you. This time I was in 18A, so boarded with the hope that I would have a clear view. Nope, this 'plane is smaller, so I am right over the wing again and get to sit and watch the landscape swirl by as the 'plane does gentle acrobatics in the air. At one point the land underneath the tip of the wing was flying by backwards as the bit under the window slipped past forwards. We were literally turning on a wingtip and I could have done without it. A slight delay at Heathrow meant that we circled round, to add to my joy. After landing and another marathon journey to a parking slot we were in the building and on UK soil.
My paperwork tells me that I am to be met by a driver. I am to be one of those that have a man waiting for me at the gate with a sign with my name on it. This is a little (read, a lot) out of my usual daily routine and I am feeling quite lightheaded. I scan the crowd as I exit customs and there he is! A very smart gentleman in a suit is stoically holding up the printed word 'BODSWORTH' and I point delightedly at him, grinning. I negotiated my way to the end of the railings, after going straight up to him and realising that something had come between us, and we shook hands. He identified himself as David and asked if I had any baggage. 'No,' I reply, 'Just my rucksack.' The rucksack in question was a giant black Hello Kitty bag with multiple pockets, wheels and an extendable trolley handle, unusable by me as it was designed for a much smaller person. David, the perfect gentleman, took if off me and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. Did I mention the glittery zips? As I scurried behind him through the throng, I couldn't help myself. 'Suits you, sir!' I gleefully shouted over to him. He looked back and winked. And we were friends.
The journey from Heathrow to the St Pancras area took longer than the one from Amsterdam to London. I was the perfect tourist, staring out of the windows with my mouth hanging open. I have been to London plenty of times, although not for a few years now, but compared to my adjusted idea of metropolis (a 20 car traffic queue is something to write to the newspaper about), it is just all so big and busy. I love the life of central London, I love the arquitecture and the opportunity, but oh my word, you can keep the traffic. The car was wonderful, buttons all over the place, which I didn't dare push. Under the seats and the door pockets were all lit with a purple glow and I briefly wondered if this wasn't all an elaborate alien abduction. Upon arrival at the hotel, we were greeted by an Eastern European woman with sunglasses and a black trench coat. A microphone jutted out from underneath her hat. Careful negotiation on David's part eventually got us entrance to the front drive so he could drop me off at the door. 'It's like a Bond movie!', he cheerfully comments as he opens the door for me.
The hotel was beautiful, but I was already feeling a little out of my depth before even entering the front door. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I reached the reception desk without being asked to leave, which frankly amazed me. Everyone there, and it was a huge lobby, people sitting around and people striding purposefully from one great wooden doorway to another, everyone was immaculate. High heels and grey suits abounded, with one particularly gorgeous bunch all dressed up in tailored coats and coiffeured hair looking like they had just stepped out of the 1940's. I, in contrast, was still wearing the beat up discarded old trainers that I had found under the car seat that morning when forced to walk to the airport. I had brushed my teeth in the airport loos and the most attention my hair had received was a distracted thought on a plane that I hadn't brushed it that day. I had thought back to the toothbrushing, where I must have looked in the mirror, and come to the conclusion that as I hadn't specifically noticed it then, it can't have been that bad. Oh, and don't forget the Hello Kitty bag. I walked up to the reception desk and waved my paperwork at them.
In a cool, professional tone of voice that I found rather hard to hear, the receptionist asked for my credit card to cover 'incidental costs'. I do not have a credit card, I inform her, would a debit card do? The look of shock on her face was priceless. No credit card? I feel a bit smaller. This is helped by the fact that the desk is obviously designed with 6" stillettos in mind and I am on tiptoes to comfortably lean on it. After her hesitation, she confirms that a debit card will be fine. 'As long as you're not going to empty my account!' I jokingly say as I find the card in the debris chocking up my purse.
'Oh no, it's just a token amount we take, madam, £100.'
I stop and look at her. '£100?? Gosh, you'd better take the other card then!' I stammer, giving her the one for the savings account. Off she goes with it. A minute later, she is back. 'I'm afraid that we don't accept Maestro, madam.'
I look at her once more. How can they accept debit cards but not Maestro? 'Well, what can we do then?' I ask her.
For the first time, she looks a bit uncomfortable. She decides to go ask her manager. As she is about to walk off I ask her if she would like me to just give her the cash. She brightens up. Yes, cash is acceptable. I ask where the nearest cash machine is and she directs me to the train station. I have to go out of the back way to the hotel and negotiate two floors of train station before I find a cash exchange desk with an ATM. Wincing, I pull £100 out of my account, knowing that the exchange rate is not going to be favourable and that they slap a charge on top. As I return to the desk clutching a wad of notes that look like they've come straight from the 19th century compared to the monopoly money of the euro I wonder if there's any chance that they will give it back to me in euros when I check out or whether I will have to put it back in my bank account in sterling, paying more fees and charges.
Finally I am checked in, and I head upstairs to my room. It is now 5.30pm and I have been travelling since 6.30am. I have an hour and a half until the welcome dinner, so I run a bath as hot as it will go and sink into it with my book. I am absolutely shattered, but so excited to meet my fellow sufferers. Roll on dinner!
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