A Long Way From Home
After surviving a five hour train journey that took me into the bowels of London and back out to head north for two hours, I'm sitting in a hotel room 200 miles from home at midnight, with the gentle rumble of nightclubs thumping the silence.
While walking the back streets of this far flung city in search of my hotel, I quickly figured out that the “Cosmopolitan” hotel is not titled entirely by chance; it seems to be surrounded by gay bars. I figured it out while trudging along with my backpack, after passing two beautiful girls gazing into each other's eyes in the doorway of a bar. A few yards on a colossus of a stunningly beautiful drag act stepped from the fast food place across the road with a kebab in his hand, before running to the backstage door of a club.
The hotel is from a bygone age. The ceilings are perhaps 10ft high, and the sash windows are covered by full height heavy curtains. I just discovered the controls for the helicopter sized overhead fan, hidden in a 1960s dresser next to the bed. A bakerlight knob let forth an electrical hum, and the blades are now attempting to lift the ceiling an inch or two.
I arrived at the hotel just too late to grab anything to eat, so instead walked back to the railway station, and it's 24 hour food shop.
Tomorrow will be all about pretending to be clever in front of a client for a few hours, followed by five more hours on trains.
Sleep. I need sleep.