The merits of insomnia, I took this outside at 5.00am with not a soul in sight.
A pre Christmas shindig is customary in the B & P household, this year we shrugged over Paris, couldn't bear the hassle of getting to Stockholm, shrugged again and settled down on the sofa like a couple of flabby middle aged weasels to watch a three part documentary, 'Inside Claridge's' all about one of my favourite hotels.
Glances were soon exchanged, heads nodded in unison, a hasty phonecall was made and grinning Cheshire cat smiles remained plastered on our faces for the rest of the evening.
We were going to Claridge's
We aren't the only ones, bookings went up by 700 percent after the first episode.
Spencer Tracey famously said, "When I die I don't want to go to heaven, I want to go to Claridge's."
Well I'm not so sure about Pascal's wager or life after death so I'm sticking with the here and now.
"Whilst I live I want to go to Claridge's"
When one passes through the etched silver revolving doors whose past passengers include Winston Churchill, Jackie Onassis and the Kings and Queens of Europe, it is like stepping into a glistening Art Deco snow globe. It's not 'Never Never Land' but one that anyone can experience for the price of a cup of coffee and whether you are a prince of the realm, or a humble street-sweeper, you will be treated royally.
The Fumoir - it's Tom Ford's favourite bar in the world and mine too.
Hubs paw - amazed that I turned down champagne but when I spotted a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon there was no stopping me, I've been wanting to taste it for years.
One of the newly refurbished Linley suites, the refurb was long over due and for once in a grand hotel with so much history it has been sympathetically done.
The Viscount Linley designed shagreen dressing table was the first dressing table which I have ever sat in front of in a hotel that that actually fulfilled its function in terms of plug point/mirror symbiosis.
The MaxMara camel hair coat, a thermal vest & two pairs of socks kept me toasty.
My comfiest boots ever, a 12 year old pair of Ferragamos, enabled the kind of non stop hoofing
last seen at the Moulin Rouge.
Until next year when I dial C for Claridge's.