After a much needed nap in what was possibly the most comfortable bed ever, I tried Abi’s room again. Finally, he answered, telling me that when I called, he was sound asleep. I told him about Shroder’s shower setting off the fire alarm. He said he’d heard the alarm, but rolled right over and went back to sleep. I asked if he wanted to go find some dinner, and he agreed.

The lobby of the Copthorne was full of the crew, all thinking about getting some dinner. Personally, I don’t like going out to a large ‘freelance crew dinner’ because it always takes forever to get served, then, when the bill comes, the people that conveniently ordered five bottles of expensive wine expect everyone to just split the cost. Plus, I work with these people every week, and have heard every one of their stories, lies and tall tales. No thanks, I’d rather sneak away.

The queue (see how British I have already become?) for cabs was forty-five minutes long. Faced with the choice of waiting with the crew or walking to the nearest restaurant in pouring rain, we opted for the latter. Getting away from the most septic of the Yanks is always a priority.

We walked to a Mexican restaurant, oddly enough staffed entirely by Russians. You always know you are in for a culinary treat when the Mexican restaurant has somehow run out of Margaritas. This was obviously a restaurant that aimed for the middle, and almost achieved mediocrity. But in their defense, I doubt most of the employees could even point out Mexico on a map.

The train platform was directly across from the restaurant, so after the most forgettable dinner in a while, we decided to take the tram to City Center, in search of a proper pub to get properly ….ed in. (The internet terminal I am at in the airport will not let me type the word p-i-s-s-e-d for some reason. Strange.) While we were trying to stuff a bill into the ticket machine, four dead ringers for the Spice Girls came up and watched us struggle, clearly we amused them greatly.

Our problem was the damn machine wouldn’t accept our money. Try as we might, the machine refused our various British bills. So we stood there, looking like idiots, while the Spice Girls laughed and laughed. Finally, we stepped away from the infernal machine.

Smartass Spice turned to us and said, “Well, you can’t just jam a bill in and hope for the best you know. You have to pick your destination first.”

Pointing to the left side of the machine, Lezbo Spice, the clearly frustrated one, added, “And just look at that! Why, there are DIRECTIONS, right HERE! But you’re men, and men don’t bother with directions, now do you?”

I guess that’s universal too. Coming to our rescue, the tiny Sugar and Spice sweetly added, “I always have trouble with these machnes too.” To which the fat one, Spice Rack said, “That’s because you’re always drunk.”

What a fun night these four birds were having! And completely at our expense. Once the Spice Girls grew tired of taunting us, they moved down the platform, and we purchased tickets to Piccadilly Gardens, for the low, low price of 1 pound each. And for all that trouble, nobody ever asked to see our ticket once in the entire trip. I have no idea why we even bothered buying the tickets at all.

Downtown was, in a word, disappointing. Pubs, at least the ones that were open, were so smoke filled that the Copthorne smoke detectors would have a field day. And the ones that looked like they might be some fun had those annoying bouncers in front that never, EVER let us in. From experience, these pricks can ALWAYS find a reason to not allow access to their exclusive bars. Rather than be rejected for not having the right shoes or something place after place, we called it an early night, taking a cab back to the Copthorne.

Author: frenchy