The Second United Kingdom

I have heard it said that there are two United Kingdoms:

1. London; and
2. Everywhere else

Today we made the journey from the first to the second. It was a little trickier than you might think.

After a hot and stormy night in Vauxhall, Stuart and I woke up with the sunrise this morning. We packed our bags, and I went off to do the very last thing I wanted to do in London.

It was also the first thing I did: a visit to the Hair Lab in Tintagel House for a cut-throat shave from Misho Isaev. This was a silent but not gloomy affair. And as ever, I realised afterwards just how much I needed it.

We picked up our bags and bade farewell to our penthouse apartment in St George Wharf Tower, the limited edition fruit flavoured version of the Spooks Building on the other side of the bridge. Using our Oyster Cards for the last time wasn't in the least bit sentimental: we were stressed about whether we would get a seat on the Piccadilly Line westbound to Heathrow. We did get seats. Eventually.

At Heathrow, we stopped for a corporate coffee and a caramel shortbread. I sent off a thank you to my friend Nick whom I had met on Saturday - and that *was* sentimental - and then we went and picked up our rental car, a Citroen C3 Aircross SUV, a luxury tank basically. We decided in our wisdom that the best way to get to know this mothership was to put it on the motorways outside Heathrow in a total white-out downpour while our Navigatrix gave us completely opaque instructions in Imperial measurements.

Our cortisol levels were higher than was comfortable. Only one thing could have possibly made them higher, which would have been if the roads themselves became more difficult. Which they did.

I don't know what kind of skinny-arse vehicles they typically drive around the winding alleys of Surrey but they are not Citroen C3 Aircross SUVs. We had to slow down for everyone. We had to pull over for everyone! Stuart was practically beside himself, I'm reciting coping statements as if they were the rosary, the rain is pouring, and everyone else is doing 80ks and hour, but in Imperial, so I don't even know what the number was.

We made it to High Edser in Ewhurst, only to find that we weren't expected, and that the proprietor was at a funeral. Her gardener Art took our number and said he would text her. We said we would go to the nearest habitable planet and drink coffee. Art said go to Cranleigh, and so we did. The bartender at the Richard Onslow had an Australian accent. I ordered Stuart a Grolsch without bothering to consult with him. We both needed him to have a drink.

I ordered myself a Tanqueray Zero Percent Gin and Tonic, which was served in an emasculating glass. My LGBTQIA+ powers were enhanced whilever I held it.

We waited and waited, and ultimately I booked the nearest hotel with a bathtub, the Random Hall in Slinfold, West Sussex. Then Art the gardener called and told us that High Edser was now open for business. We told him we had made other plans. He cracked the shits and hung up on us.

But who cares about High Edser when we're in Slinfold's most gorgeous guesthouse? Random Hall is a 17th century farmhouse turned into a hotel with a fine dining restaurant and a bath that actually works. As far as I'm concerned, I am living in Arcadia now. Dessert tonight was a Choux au Craquelin in Vanilla sauce. One bite and I forgot I was mortal.

I was sad to leave London this morning. I loved my time there, even though the way I handled jetlag was emotionally unhygienic. I loved meeting Nick. I loved Hampstead. I loved Greenwich. I loved going to the West End with my folks. And I wondered if London was everything the UK had to offer, and that it was all downhill from here.

But let me tell you, after my first bath in a fortnight, and after my Choux au Craquelin, sitting underneath 17th century beams, I couldn't give a flying fuck about London. Screw that place. I'm in the other United Kingdom now.Read more