No sooner was I back in the UK, reunited with Becky in London, but I was on the receiving end of services good, bad and ugly. The Dublin-London flight went smoothly aside from a ’Last and Final Call for Mr Humphreys’ announcement. Last on, almost first off the plane, and set for a relaxing few days in the other capital. A show, good food, great company. And no more suitcases for a few days!
Checked into the hotel, I’d booked us an evening at the Eagle Bar – magnificent panoramic rooftop views from what used to be the appropriately-named US Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Very upscale uptop, sufficiently so to demand a minimum spend per head and a top-end service charge to boot. Service, however, there wasn’t. Like an episode from The Apprentice, where floor traders are asked to provide top-notch hospitality, the young aspirational failed even to be conversational, never mind empathetic or educated on service standards, client expectations, etiquette or product. I seldom complain or withold gratuities, always preferring to give something positive, or simply never to return if I can’t be constructive. But, focused as I was on service after a fortnight of being at the heart of it, for perhaps the first time ever I refused to pay a service charge on the basis none had been received. If indeed the server was set on any sort of career path, rather than practising a Keystone Cops service philosophy, someone needed to cut to the chase rather than do that so-British-thing of Keep Calm, Carry on and above all Don’t Make a Fuss.
To be fair, this seemed to be isolated amongst the largely excellent staff at The Eagle, it was just that, at our end of the roof garden we were the chosen manure recipients. So we wandered back to the hotel, reeking mildly after the experience, sure that our Big Name Hotel (the names withheld to protect the innocent) would make it all up and we’d feel cossetted and comfortable in the room we’d unpacked in, ready to jump almost straight into bed. Instead we appeared to step into the shower, but for some reason it appeared right inside the door as we entered the room. The shower was obviously feeling as under-appreciated as we were and greeted us in full flow from the ceiling, while it’s twin sister was waiting patiently in the bathroom, right where expected. Now, being accosted by a shower is a surprise. I prefer to be in control. Yet for us, as it transpired, the air conditioning had begun to identify as a shower, so rather than stay in a room in transition, we were moved at midnight, in something of a rush, to a new room upstairs – hopefully not the source of the ‘issue’, and with a caveat to the staff that this was a little after midnight, we’d both just flown in from abroad, were tired, and would quite possibly have left the odd thing in the room.
When I say ‘moved’ this was a self-service experience, so I was back to shifting suitcases. Also ‘self service’ it appeared, the staff clearly decided they could help themselves to the drinks we’d left in the fridge and the much-needed umbrella, as autumn showers had now also arrived. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink (as housekeeping had nicked it). Now, again this is uncharacteristic of the huge chain of hotels we’d been used to frequenting, hence my reluctance to identify the offending establishment. But offended we were. And off we were, keeping calm and carrying our bags to the comfort of the aforementioned shabby flat in Perth.
London hadn’t let us down over all, of course, with a superb and sociable meal at Padella in Borough Market (with brilliantly personable staff and superb service), coffee and pastries at Fred’s in Leadenhall Market, lunchtime wanderings and daytime rooftop garden views at 120 Fenchurch Street, and a memorable night of a lifetime Chasing Cars at the Albert Hall with the band Snow Patrol. I’d also taken the chance to reconnect with younger son Scott, an all-too-infrequent opportunity since The Split, and still so important to the both of us. A theme of the show and meeting Scott was the challenge of being so far apart – something I was learning too much about, in relation to my boys, to Becky and to Jackson. At the same time as adding pressure, though, it makes the time we do spend together that much more precious. All are family. All are equally important, if in different ways. Distance, despite what physicists may say, has weight. Still felt at times, but showing signs perhaps of a load lightening as life moved forward.
But when we were back in Perth, there’d be a sigh of relief at being, in some way, or on the way, home.
International-Eyes.org 