Sorry I'll stop going on about Paris now: us who live in the sticks get a bit overexcited when we visits the BIG city.
Just this . . .
This is where we and our bag started out, Le Train Bleu. We were early for the train so I twisted Mark's arm and pulled him in protesting about the potential terrifying cost of a cup of tea. Yes it is expensive, hyperventilating-ly so but . . .er can't think of a justification really. However it is so worth it. A beautiful waiter took our bag, not at all disdainfully I must add, and showed us to a seat.
It's a flamboyant way to spend an hour waiting for your train, gazing at the lush murals of exotic holiday destinations, imagining what it must have been like to be a privileged traveler in that epoch, before the days of trip advisor and Ryanair burritos.
Maybe there was an equivalent:
Dearest Vacation confidant: We arrived in dear Mrs Antelthweps barouche carriage, so much the mode with it's French silk interior.
The hotel was rather smaller than I had imagined after our housekeeper's description. There was not nearly enough space to store all the Louis Vuitton, and the owner smelt slightly of cats.
The room was pleasant enough with a view to the South featuring a fountain playing within a jolly little Italianate garden. I may ask our gardener to recreate it when we return to the Surrey residence in the Autumn. The bed was large, good quality linens, and breakfast was brought to our room at the appointed time by a tidy young girl: brioche, damson jam and ceylon tea. Henry was a little put out that there was not more than one variant of jam offered, but I told him to shut up, as his moaning was becoming tiresome to my nerves.
My only complaint really was the thickness of the walls as we were both subjected to the intolerable sounds of Mrs Antelthwerp being given a jolly good rogering by that new man friend of hers.
Four stars for cleanliness, facilities, decorative nature of the rooms and three for breakfast—Henry insisted.