Witsand, South Africa

A slight change of plan. As I have a afternoon appointment in Stirling, we decide to book a night train to London on the Caledonian Sleeper. After the nightmare experience on bloody Ryanair, it is a small price to pay in comparison. From the platform we are ushered to a VIP lounge on the station, where drinks and snacks await. We have no idea what awaits us on the train… The compartment is the size of a glove compartment in a Toyota Tazz. The bunk beds are neatly made (with very decent linen and pillows), a small basin is hidden under a fliptop table. Two of suitcases just fit under the bottom bunk. We are both dog tired and decide to call it a day. As the train pulls out of the station, I fall asleep. For three minutes. For some reason it seems that the driver of the train likes hitting the brakes at ten minute intervals. This results in the coach jolting, just enought to make me fear that I might fall off the top bunk. The stretches in between him playing with the brakes are wonderfully comforting, lulling me into a much needed sleep. Ten minutes later, jolted as he brakes again. So through the night until we arrive at Euston station just before 07h00. We did get the coffee that we were offered the night before – undrinkable. We make a beeline for the apartment, desperate now for a shower and lying down in an unmoving bed. The sun is out – it looks tyttlike a beautiful day in London. Strange how the body changes with age – a few years ago I would have been out on the street exploring, not giving tiredness a moment’s thought. Now, I feel as if the train had actually draged me behind it. After a decent nap, we take to the streets to enjoy some sunshine and find a much deserved breakfast. I google a few places and see Partridge recommended as a foodie lover’s heaven, in Chelsea. In our summer’s best, we venture forth to indulgence. Partridge is indeed a paradise for food lovers, and those adventurous enough to try things like grashopper flour biscuits, dried mealworms and sun-dried baby crickets. Beautifully packaged. To take advantage of high summer in London, we sit outside facing the Saatchi Gallery. (It is Chelsea you know). The service fiasco starts. A waitress from an unknown destination (what in the old days one would call a “foreign country”) is our service ambassador. Or rather our service embaressment. She manages to get it all wrong – not just our simple order, but all the orders around us. People eventually simply get up and walk away in a huff. Her fellow waitron and her are now having a tiff – neither very fluent in English which makes the tiff more sign language than verbal confrontation. Getting yourself in a huff and pulling your tail feathers in a curl seem to be universal, foreign origins or not. It is now actually entertaining to watch, although very embarressing at the same time. Just as I think the situation is actually going to explode, the heavens open in a torrential downpour. Now the dualling duo are trying to put up massive umbrellas, whilst hitting patrons behind the head and turning over glasses. At this point we decide to go inside, like most of the rest of the people sitting outside. It is ******* down. Of course inside is packed, and when asking a red faced, puffy cheeked gentleman if we may join his table (he is sitting alone at a table for four) I am greeted with a snarl to indicate “hell yes, if you bloody well have to”. He voted for Brexit – I am convinced. Would have none of this European sharing of tables, bloody Continentals! I ignore him, sit down (drenched from three paces in the rain). Of course we had neither warm clothes nor umbrella as it was summer when we left the flat. I cannot help but think of my clients complaining about “bad service” in our dining rooms. God knows, I do wish I could treat them to a few very expensive restaurants across the globe to show them what “bad service” looks like. By now I am tempted to call the manager of the very pretentious, up-market, Tripadvisor recommended bloody canteen to give her a piece of my mind. Instead, we pay the bill and leave, to the absolute delight of Mr. Grumpy. (Who has a slice of bread with hard boiled eggs and smoked salmon, washed down with a glass of Rose). Slightly traumatised, we decide to go back to the apartment for a nap, walking back along the Thames.