I got to my hotel around noon yesterday after a ride into London with a very lovely gentleman who has been driving a cab for 38 years. He can retire July 20-something, not that he's counting. We managed to get stuck in traffic during the changing of the guard, so I immediately felt like I had accomplished something. (If flopping my head around while the soldiers marched by counts as doing something, that is.) I also learned that he has been married 39 years, that his wife's first job was as a secretary for someone at the fruit market (this is where they met), that his uncle used to run a pub called the Porcupine in West London, that his other uncle had a butcher shop in the same neighborhood and that, for some reason-- I didn't pry--, he and his wife couldn't have kids. Oh, and that they're overly involved in one another's lives, that both sides of their families have moved out of London and that they are planning on moving to a nearby suburb soon. All without knowing his name or even talking all that much. Strange.
Anyhow, he guessed that I was travelling for work because he said I looked sad (but he used some charming British-ism for it). He was right about the work part, but not the sad part. I was perfectly happy, just panicking that my phone wasn't working and trying to fight off that embarrassingly uncontrollable head flop that happens when you're really, really tired. (So awkward.)
So, I arrive at my chi-chi hotel, get to my room, and decide immediately to log on. (Because, apparently, I can't tolerate being without email or my phone for more than 45 minutes. And it had been 12 hours. I'm going to have to work on that.) Except for one thing: I'd busted my computer screen. All black, with a disconcerting abstract design towards the top, right in the middle, it was clearly an incurable disease. But what the hell had happened? Being tired (did I mention I was tired?), I had a VERY hard time figuring it out. Then I remembered. Whilst sleepily maneuvering my schmancy Lufthansa Business Class seat-- in pursuit of my 432nd feeding of the flight, no doubt-- my footrest wouldn't go down. I didn't realize that it was my computer bag blocking it, so I kept at my seat controller, begging it to go down. Delirious maneuvering of a mechanical seat is clearly no bueno. Smashed to the point of death, it turns out. Thank goodness my hard drive works and I was able to (eventually) pull the more important bits off of my machine to transfer to a friendly loaner (from which I am now broadcasting). All thanks to the London office IT guy who so patiently dealt with me yesterday. I'd be in serious freak-out mode sans computer.
Which brings me to today. So much to tell considering I've been working since 7:30 am (got back to my hotel around 10pm), but I'm exhausted. Suffice it to say it included being chewed out over margins (you are correct- I have no bearing on margins. But I was happy to listen.) by a very surly retailer, three sullen and self-described “lazy” girls (aged 17), a stolen Corona, and a lot of coffee. Perhaps in the morning.
In the meantime, I thought I'd leave you with evidence of my $130 room service dinner, just to spice things up a bit. And no, there is no reason for this to cost $130. It's just London.
xo
