This week has been hectic to say the least, and that will continue into the weekend, only in that in a major change, we have three nights out in a row planned. In fact last night was the first of these, a night in Folkestone watching Jack Dee on stage at the Quarterhouse. It’s a test run prior to him doing stand-up next year on the arena circuit, and he had decided to play Folkestone.
Being a subscriber to their newsletter, we got the heads up and I bought tickets seconds after they went on sale. Just as well I did as they sold out in 10 minutes. So, that’s where we were last night, and as I had also been away for two days, it meant I did not get home until a quarter to eleven, well past bedtime.
So, for the for the first four day of the week, I did not go into work. Monday and Tuesday, I worked from home, which is always nice. On Monday we had a central heating engineer call round to fix some leaks and other problems. So, inbetween waiting on the various cat’s demands, I got work done and dealt with the engineer when he turned up. Tuesday we were due to have a new tumble dryer delivered, and their best guess was ‘between 8 and 6’ not much help, so I worked from home again. They turned up with our all new quieter, cheaper to run tumble dryer just after two, and went back to work.
Each evening I sat down to watch football on TV. For some reason I was shattered all week. And that was not helped on Wednesday at getting up at five in the morning so I could catch a train to London. I had been booked on an audit course, and so two days and a night in ‘The Smoke’ was for me.
Jools dropped me off at Priory Station, and I was able to get onto the 06:12 train and was soon speeding my way up through the blackness of a Kentish early morning and into a waking London. I got off the train with an hour and 40 minutes to kill before I had to be in the venue; so, I had my camera with me, so I had better go and snap some shots.
I snapped the ongoing work at neighbouring Kings Cross and walked down to Euston Road. I headed west before turning off and walked down towards Russell Square. I found myself walking through some splendid houses, down quite streets. I snapped them all, along with shops, hospitals and colleges. In the end I arrived ain Russell Square, with the venue for the course is found, The Russell Hotel. I walked over to the square and snapped what was going on; mainly dog-walkers and fallen leaves.
Time then to grab a coffee and something to eat before it was time for the course.
The course went on until 5: I won’t bore you with details, just to say it wasn’t as bad as you would imagine, and the day passed quite quickly.
I left the hotel at 5.
Well, should I leave it at that? No, probably. The venue for the course, The Russell Hotel, is a Victorian palace, all marble and chandeliers and bell-hops in uniforms. And I was there in my jeans and plaid shirt, for a conference/course. And the great thing is, most of us were the same, and there we were mixing it with the rich and jetsetters who could afford to stay there. I took a few shots of the lobby and stairs, and was happy enough with that. I was told I could not stay there as the cost for a basic room was an eye-watering £230 a night, with breakfast an extra ££20. I stayed somewhere round the corner and half the price.
I did get to walk across the square, through the fallen leaves, past the fountain and out of the square, round a university, and there was my hotel, a Georgian townhouse, now a boutique hotel. What is a boutique hotel I hear you ask, and I would reply I have no idea. My company booked it, and so I walked in and apparently was in a cross between an office and a living room. My reservation was good, and after checking in, was shown up to my room, six flights of stairs up. The room was fine, big bed and a shower and all the usual facilities. It had a mini-bar, which I have a policy of not using because of the cost and having to explain to my boss why I HAD to have those peanuts.
I laid on the bed and listened to the radio 4 news for an hour before heading out into the night, camera at hand.
I walked down into Bloomsbury to the British Museum, found one pub that was crowded, and another, The Plough, which had room enough for one fat bloke for a pint or two. I then went searching for a place to eat, and settled on a small Greek place. The food was simple, but good: tzusaki followed by mousaka and then coffee and baklava. All very good and in the end, filling.
And after draining the coffee, I walk back to the hotel to watch the end of the Chelsea game on TV; but the TV did not want to show any ITV channels, so I made do with Sir David Attenborough and another stunning episode of Frozen Planet.
I had the luxury on Friday of waking up at 7 and laying bed for nearly an hour listening to the radio again, then having a shower, packing then checking out and looking for a place to have breakfast. The café on the square did not take cards, so I had a coffee at an East European place just up from the square, and then I walked to the hotel and back to the course.
At 16:45, the course finished and I raced to St Pancras to try to catch the 17:10 train back to Kent as we had tickets for the Jack Dee show in Folkestone that night. I got to Russell Square station, squeezed into the lift down to platform level right away, and then onto a waiting train. In the end I was climbing onto the train before 5 and I even got a seat. I called Jools to arrange her to meet me at Folkestone, and so I could relax.
Once we were near the venue for the show, we found a parking space on the side of the road and with nearly two hours to kill, we went for dinner, a curry, in a place just along the road. I had garlic chilli chicken, which was great. And then we went to the harbour for me to take some shots, and there was even time for a wee dram in The Ship beside the harbour.
Jack was great, and it was wonderful to see him up close, as I had booked seats in the middle of the front row, which worked well as he does not really interact with the audience, so we were not subjected to ire or spite as could have happened.
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