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ysobellehttp://www.londonhotelsandguide.com/gainsborough.html
Sniff.
I'm such an idiot. I'm sitting here crying. The above referenced establishment is where I, as an exchange student in my wild youth, lived for one year.
Of course, back then, it was most emphatically NOT the Gainsborough. It was a seedy, decript old place about on par with a vaguely disreputable youth hostel, and it was called the Queensberry Court Hotel. The carpets were worn, the kitchen was vile, the housekeeper was a sadist, none of the staff spoke English, and the toilet paper was WAX PAPER that read, "Now Wash Your Hands!" Oh, those kooky Brits!
But it was in South Kensington—South Ken—and I was in an impossibly posh neighbourhood. (We even had a tiny private casino on one corner—very high class.) And it was right down the street from the Natural History museum. I could lean out my charming french doors onto my faux balcony and stare at its multicoloured walls. We were in the middle of everything, and I was gloriously happy. My SAD deserted me, no matter what anyone says about how gloomy the winter is there. Oh, it was wonderful. I prowled the city all the time while my classmates did everything they could to seek out all the other American schools’ students and hang with them. I dunno, maybe they weren’t getting their RDA of obnoxious behaviour? AT any rate, by the time I came home, I could take a walking tour in a darkened room with my A to Zed. And I frequently did. Oh, Harrod’s. Oh, the little house in Chelsea where Nick Rhodes used to live. The Boltons. Battersea Power Station. Feet First at Camden Palace—I wonder if that still runs on Tuesday nights? No one blinked an eye when Goth Girl in her crazyfunky eye makeup hopped onto the tube at 10 at night. I didn’t care about going alone anywhere late. I always felt safe there. How can you not in a country where even the police don’t have guns? ("Stop! …Or I’ll say stop again!" Eddie Izzard) Oh, Portobello Road. Oh, the HMV in Leicester Square. Oh, the Night Bus from Trafalgar.
Sniff.
What I need, you see, is a fabulously rich Prince Charming to sweep me off to London for a month. It’s not that I want a Sugar Daddy, it’s just that I’m more than willing to let someone else pick up the tab for my fun just once. I don’t need to make it a habit, and I promise I won’t let it go to my head. Honest!
Sniff.
I'm such an idiot. I'm sitting here crying. The above referenced establishment is where I, as an exchange student in my wild youth, lived for one year.
Of course, back then, it was most emphatically NOT the Gainsborough. It was a seedy, decript old place about on par with a vaguely disreputable youth hostel, and it was called the Queensberry Court Hotel. The carpets were worn, the kitchen was vile, the housekeeper was a sadist, none of the staff spoke English, and the toilet paper was WAX PAPER that read, "Now Wash Your Hands!" Oh, those kooky Brits!
But it was in South Kensington—South Ken—and I was in an impossibly posh neighbourhood. (We even had a tiny private casino on one corner—very high class.) And it was right down the street from the Natural History museum. I could lean out my charming french doors onto my faux balcony and stare at its multicoloured walls. We were in the middle of everything, and I was gloriously happy. My SAD deserted me, no matter what anyone says about how gloomy the winter is there. Oh, it was wonderful. I prowled the city all the time while my classmates did everything they could to seek out all the other American schools’ students and hang with them. I dunno, maybe they weren’t getting their RDA of obnoxious behaviour? AT any rate, by the time I came home, I could take a walking tour in a darkened room with my A to Zed. And I frequently did. Oh, Harrod’s. Oh, the little house in Chelsea where Nick Rhodes used to live. The Boltons. Battersea Power Station. Feet First at Camden Palace—I wonder if that still runs on Tuesday nights? No one blinked an eye when Goth Girl in her crazyfunky eye makeup hopped onto the tube at 10 at night. I didn’t care about going alone anywhere late. I always felt safe there. How can you not in a country where even the police don’t have guns? ("Stop! …Or I’ll say stop again!" Eddie Izzard) Oh, Portobello Road. Oh, the HMV in Leicester Square. Oh, the Night Bus from Trafalgar.
Sniff.
What I need, you see, is a fabulously rich Prince Charming to sweep me off to London for a month. It’s not that I want a Sugar Daddy, it’s just that I’m more than willing to let someone else pick up the tab for my fun just once. I don’t need to make it a habit, and I promise I won’t let it go to my head. Honest!