It’s not write, but it’s OK.

Time heals all wounds. Slowly. Apart from a slash to the comedy jugular, which I’m sure this post will suffer from. There’s nothing nicer than celebrating your birthday in a way that only you know will work. And thanks to the support (and downright pressure) from close friends; I’m living my birthday dream. You might know that over the past couple of weeks I’ve been slightly nomadic, schlepping from place to place, country to country and more recently hotel to hotel.

I could now give out stars in this town, so many of their rich and verdant sleeping establishments I have visited. 

Let me run you though some highs – and lows.

Highs: 

There are no rooms like the Playhouses at Soho House New York. This time I’ve discovered that the shower has a ‘Mr. Steam’ function, and just shy of setting of the smoke alarms, I cranked it up and opened my pores.

The argument proving that to order Chicken Noodle Soup from the Millenium Hilton at 1.29am when the cut off is at 1.30 the ended in mutual multiple hang-ups.

The joy of the roof top bar at 60 Thompson, possibly the most beautiful rooftop bar in the world. 

The ecstasy of the breakfasts at the Gild Hall Hotel (brand spanking new downtown) and being informed that it had taken more time than it should because they couldn’t poach the eggs without breaking them.

 

The Lows:

No matter how high your floor, when you stay in a hotel that overlooks the World Trade Center site, you can’t help wondering if the foundations were damaged on that dreadful day. And by high I mean 54th floor.

The fucking bastard xylophone player (barely a musician) who would not stop until 2am on West Broadway meaning windows remained closed (a pet hate)

The paradox of wondering if you’re lonely and simultaneously enjoying the whole king sized, Frette linen’d bed to yourself.

 

So, in closing on this ‘lighthouse/corner turned’ post, I’ve hotel’d the fuck out of it. And I’m proud of me for doing so.  Happy sodding birthday.