There is a temptation to blame this on Boris the Buffoon, but I think that would be unfair since I don't believe he can have reached these crooks and nannies yet.
My stays in London are normally characterised by the following extra-curricular activities to pass the time admirably between the end of one working day and the start of the next: a London beer to gaze into; a Bangladeshi curry to warm the inner self; and - following a night of deep, dreamless sleep - the delights of the classic B&B breakfast experience. Anyone who has stayed in a London B&B will know the form: a flask of stewed tea and an English breakfast served by a stern Eastern European matron under the watchful but benificent eye of Pope John Paul II.
I knew I was off to a bad start when I checked in to the B&B and found that the reception was a superficially glitzy affair (what happened to tired wood panelling and a stack of receipts piled on top of the computer?) - but my room was 'across the road in that building over there'. Have the absentee hoteliers now started buying up whole streets and turning them into MDF dormitories? My room featured a range of cheap-chic fittings last seen in the bargain bin at the Woolworth closing down sale, a telly perched on a fridge laden, inexplicably, with single-portion cartons of UHT milk (now there's a waste of energy), a pedestal fan that appeared to have just staggered back from a hard night in Soho, a washbasin with the plug stuck firmly in and a booby-trapped towel rail that gave way and deposited all the towels into the toilet.
Then came the curry: good food, I cannot deny. But why wouldn't the staff eject the two drunks who were shouting and swearing at each other and disturbing the rest of the clientele? Answer: because they are their most loyal customers. Hmmm...When all others have gone elsewhere 'because the food's nice but there are always those two damned offensive drunks', those two damned offensive drunks will still be bawling and brawling their way through the popadums. Will someone call a small business adviser? Well, he needn't be that small, so long as he knows his stuff.
But my God, the breakfast. It's official: B&B breakfast has attained new lows of DIY lovelessness.
"Good morning. Please sign in." This was the limit of my entire conversation with the waitress.
Having signed in, I put a teabag in a cup, filled it from an urn, filled a glass of juice from another urn, picked up two slices of VAL-U bread from a plastic-roofed plate, and a long-since boiled egg, slid the bread into the perpetual toasting machine, avoided the vacant glares of my fellow guests, sloshed it all down in about 4 minutes.... and that was that.
Come on, London, this is breakfast we're dealing with. I want to be glowered at in Polish, told off in Portugese, kicked into life by soupy Italian coffee and brought to within an inch of explosion by burnt Danish bacon and stodgy Irish sausages. My day is ruined.
Oh yes, and the buskers on the Tube: why must they play along to backing tracks? It's awful.
Mind you, the Smoke did redeem itself gloriously this morning, thanks to a big green thing called Hyde Park, and a big yellow thing called the Sun. Proof that the environment matters!
AW.
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