Wheaton’s Way

In case you weren’t aware, my bestie Lynne and I are presently on vacation.

We completed a Norwegian cruise two weeks ago, and have been holed up in London ever since. I was the first to come down with a lurgy that sent me to my bed, then Lynne disappeared into a sniffling snuffling vortex a few days later, just as I was improving. We have therefore been sprinkling our magnificence around the city in shifts.

As I write this, Lynne is feeling significantly better, and so we’ve actually been venturing out together – going to the theatre and indulging in some fancy dinners.

Today (Wednesday), we made our way across the Thames to The Shard, an aptly-named sliver of a building that resembles a vertically stretched pyramid. At just over 1,000 feet, it is the tallest edifice in London. We were pursuing one of those time-honoured British traditions – afternoon tea. The Shard’s restaurant Ting on the 35th floor promised a sumptuous repast of finger sandwiches, sweet treats, and – naturally – scones, cream and jam, all with breathtaking views of the surrounding city as the backdrop.

The impeccably-dressed hostess invited us to follow her to our table. You know the walk – where you’re thinking, “Oo – that would be a good one,” and “I hope we get those seats!” Well, we just kept walking until she stopped by the table in the furthest corner of the room. I knew I should have carried my one designer handbag and ditched the Skechers. We had been assigned the non-influencer spot.

Yes, it was right next to the window, but the ‘breathtaking views’ were of industrial buildings, construction sites and trains that seemed in no particular hurry, snaking their way along miles of brown tracks. If Lynne craned her neck, she could just about see London Bridge. I tried to subtly get us a better table by pointedly telling the hostess that it was Lynne’s first time in London. Lynne, oblivious to my brilliantly laid plan, instead of putting on the Puss in Boots eyes, laughed; slapped me on the back; and said, “Don’t be ridiculous! [Turning to the hostess.] She’s kidding – I’ve been here many times before.”

Curses – foiled again. The hostess smiled politely at the hilarious banter and left us to our naughty corner.

The tea was really lovely – and substantial. I managed to eat my portions of everything, but Lynne had to take her final cakes to go. The crowning glory was a dessert fashioned to look like a miniature Shard, complete with a base that was suddenly enveloped in a swirling cloud of fog when the server poured hot water on the dry ice hidden beneath. All terribly highfalutin.

Apparently, what wasn’t so falutin – high or otherwise – was the state of my lipstick. The tea had wiped away any evidence of my earlier application, save a pitiful line of pink, and Lynne insisted that I go to the bathrooms to apply a fresh coat before anyone in public witnessed the horror.

The facilities, unsurprisingly, were as classy as you might expect. As a side note, am I the only person who wonders if obscure or fancypants designs indicating which toilets are which are a backfire waiting to happen? These were fine, with their fairly obvious elongated ‘W’ and ‘M’, but I’ve discovered recently that some establishments seem to think it’s terribly funky and hip to use weird graphics or hieroglyphics to denote which toilet is designated to whom. If I’m dying to go, I don’t need to be trying to remember what gender symbol I fall under. Are we with the plus symbol or the arrow? I mean, don’t get me wrong – if I end up in the wrong toilets, I won’t be a shrinking violet, but why make it deliberately difficult for people? However, I digress…

While I was there, I figured I’d use the actual toilet. Who knew how long we’d be walking after this before we could get a taxi? As soon as I was in a cubicle, the fear set in. There was one of those computer panels in the wall with tasteful depictions of a figure getting various areas in their nethers spritzed with water – among others – next to an array of buttons. Not requiring any of those services (I believed), I just sat down on what I quickly realised was a heated seat. I’ve encountered these in the past, but this was the hottest yet. If the hobs died in the main kitchen, they could conceivably cook meals sous vide on those lavatories.

Thankfully, the flusher was old-school, so I escaped relatively unscathed. But now I had to wash my hands. Of course, everything was non-contact. I waved my hand in front of the tap, and was rewarded with running water, but the motion-activated soap dispenser wasn’t as quick to give up her bounty. After about a minute of swatting my fingers around in front of it as though chasing an errant fly, I gave up and tried the one at the sink station next to me. No soap, so I withdrew my hand, only to see a delayed dollop land in the bowl. I was about to give it another go, when I saw ye olde familiar hand pumps by the mirrors. Ah – a backup plan. I put one hand under the dispenser and pressed down the top with the other hand. Immediately I got a faceful of hand sanitiser. Dodgy lipstick was now the least of my worries.

It took another five minutes, but I managed to clean myself up and get out of there (glad they didn’t have a full body scan to decide whether one should be allowed back out among the other diners). Head held high, I walked out to curious looks from Lynne. “Don’t ask,” I said, wiping the last evidence of makeup from my face.

Guess we deserved that corner table after all.