This ritual is just as complex, long winded and intricate as a Japanese tea ceremony. Although there’s less bowing involved and you don’t have to sit on the floor.
To give you a clue to the complexity here is an extract from the House of Commons press release:
“The chefs have created a tempting array of savouries such as citrus marinated Scottish salmon with cream cheese, lemon curd and chive on a mini bagel, and free range egg mayonnaise with watercress on wholemeal bread. Room should be saved for the sweet course which includes sultana scones with strawberry jam and Devonshire clotted cream, and Valronha chocolate delice. Beverages are a selection of teas or freshly brewed coffee.”

And this is for a tea that costs £19.95 which makes it the budget airline of the Afternoon Tea world. Cheap as chips. To give you an idea of the lengths hotels go to to give their Afternoon Tea the edge I discovered a 24 Karat Gold one recently. During which you drink Champagne with gold in it and eat gold leaf jelly and gold leaf and strawberry tart. Guess what’s sprinkled on top… you guessed it, gold flakes.

Did those brave frontier Americans really push west into uncharted territory risking life and scalp to find gold just so that Brits could eat it? Yes, it turns out.
If staff from top hotels ever gather in Trafalgar Square and have a massive brawl it’ll be who has the best Afternoon Tea that they’ll be fighting about.

Thankfully the Tea Guild (yes tea has a guild) created an awards ceremony 28 years ago to stave off the requirement for fisty cuffs.
The judges follow very strict guidelines, I’m told, covering the décor, the appropriateness of the crockery, staff attitude, tea knowledge, efficiency of service, overall ambience and how the tea itself is served.

Guess who received an Award of Excellence, you’ll be pleased to hear, a Small Luxury Hotel of the World -The Capital Hotel & Apartments.

So there you have it. If you want the very best Afternoon Tea in London don’t go to the House Of Commons, head to The Capital Hotel. Hmm, I’m feeling a little peckish. See you next week!

I’ve been attempting to make my abode a more aesthetically pleasing one over the last couple of years and it’s been an abject failure. I seem to be able to buy a nice piece of furniture. Standalone this piece of furniture would garner some respectful cooing from the ladies of London Town.

The problem arises when I try to fit said piece into the muddled shambles of a cluttered bohemian/shabby chic/Scandinavian puzzle I’ve created in my flat.

I’ve given up now. It was getting so weird that I could see guests considering calling the men in white coats. Or at least I had until, after whinging at an American friend for half an hour about my appalling décor skills, she suggested I have a look at Pottery Barn.

I almost lost my temper. “I’m not sure pottery is going to help my dear, have you not been listening? More pots (yes I bought some giant pots) are not the answer.”

She was kind enough not to call me a moron before explaining that pottery barn does a lot more than pottery. I’d imagine my American readers already know this. And I fear a large number of everyone else knows too. Perhaps the part of my brain that could have stored this knowledge was destroyed at Dukes on Monday

After five minutes looking at furniture and soft furnishings I predictably got bored and drifted into the travel section where I purchased a faux fur neck roll (it looks like a puppy that lives quietly on your shoulders) for flying. Although I think I might wear it all the time. It’s so comfortable that taking it off makes me cry, and I’ll be able to power-nap anywhere at any time.

It’s at this stage in my blog posts I usually panic about mentioning SLH. No need this time. As my finger strolled through the pottery barn blog, I randomly found a competition to win a trip to the Sandpiper Hotel would you Adam and Eve it! (an SLH hotel if you didn’t know).

I love it when a plan that didn’t actually ever exist appears to come together.

So prepare yourself for an incoherent and potentially grumpy blog post next week. I’ll be writing it on Tuesday morning with a large cup of coffee and a sore head for company.

This child, who I shan’t name because it seems a little early in his life to be derided on the internet, will not remember the occasion. He will be more interested in wrapping paper and boxes than the gifts. And he will sleep through large portions of his own party.
But I’ll be awake. Does this seem fair?
If the child were turning five, I get it. I remember my fifth. I know there was a pony involved and junk food. No idea who else was there, I only had eyes for the pony.
But one seems a little premature for a human birthday celebration (although I reserve the right to completely change my mind if and when I have my own).
What is worth a party however is when a lovely hotel turns one. If it’s survived a year it means enough guests have come to stay to pay the bills and the chances are they liked it because these days bad hotels get quickly hammered on-line and then die a swift death.
So I’d like to raise a toast to a beautiful little Portuguese hotel – that never wets the bed or demands to be fed at three in the morning – Carmo’s Boutique Hotel which turns one in a couple of weeks.
And best of all, you don’t have to buy it a present but it’s got you a little something.

No I’m not a tree. Very good point small f friend with poor grammar.
Then: “Don’t wish it was easier, wish you were better.” Bleugh.
Like an extraordinarily sticky snowball rolling down a mountain of nonsense it grew into a giant blob of yellow snow where my links to cute baby animals used to be.
The real slap in the face was the positive reaction to said quotes. Barrels of ‘likes’, that don’t appear to be ironic, and comments that make you want to throw your phone into the nearest body of water.
“You go girl, be happy NOW!”
and
“You’re so right, I’m not going to postpone my happiness ANY MORE!”
If someone has some genuine happiness tips then share away. If there’s a fruit-based drink proven to lighten my mood and lower my BMI, a film that will have me skipping joyfully for days afterwards, or a new hot sauce I can fire up my chilli with (spicy sauce makes me happy) then by all means give me the info.
But ambiguous conceptual hot air won’t do. I need facts.
Having written the above I spent a little time wondering how this relates to my blogging home here at SLH. And, thankfully, it does.
“Unhappy because it’s cold? Go somewhere hot with Small Luxury Hotels of the World!”
“Sad because you’re at work? Don’t do any work in a Small Luxury Hotel of the World!”
Could someone read these words and be left feeling uncertain how to proceed if being cold or bored of work were affecting their mood? I think not.
Solid useful words one after the other. If hotels that are small and luxury and in the world make you happy then happiness you shall have.
Unless you’re a tree. No trees allowed.

But it seems that although I’ve accepted I will never be perfect, I still haven’t managed to give up on the idea that a man could and should be.
Anyway, I’ve come up with a plan to ensure every date I go on from now on is as good as my holidays always are.
My inspiration? Small Luxury Hotels of the World of course.
Replace ‘Hotels’ with ‘Men’. And perhaps scrap the ‘Small’. Bingo. Ooh, hang on. Replace ‘World’ with ‘The Greater London Area’. Long distance never works.
Luxury Men of the Greater London Area will simply re-train the SLH hotel vetting people and have them give members of the hairier sex a once, twice and three times over to ensure high standards, original features and a degree of exclusivity.

So, Mr Paul SLH Kerr, over to you… 

I didn’t say anything though, I never do in spas. For a reason I’ve never really considered until now an overwhelming ‘when in Rome’ attitude that takes over my brain whenever I set foot in a spa that essentially means I’ll let them do anything (legal) no matter how ridiculous it sounds.

Boiling hot stones, disco baths, a chocolate coating, being wrapped in Clingfilm… If someone dressed in one of those special pyjama/doctors/kimono outfits staff wear in spas told me to stand on one leg and bark like a dog while they hit me with sticks I’d probably do it as long as they promised I would feel relaxed afterwards.
But on this occasion I left feeling about as relaxed as a poorly-prepared student in an exam hall. I accepted the idea that it was a man pretty quickly but couldn’t get used to this particular man’s agitated massage style. It was as if he was trying to shoehorn a 7 hour treatment into 30 frenzied minutes of hell.

Nobody should ever move quickly in a spa. Surely that must be a rule? But he dashed around me like an angry sprinter, prodding me occasionally, and then flung some boiling hot oil over me before ringing a loud bell and disappearing.
I don’t know if he had finished torturing me but I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to run away so grabbed my clothes and snuck out like a traumatised ninja.
It hasn’t put me off for life though. Scores of wonderful massages versus one bad one seems fair odds. I’m just going to be a little more discerning about where and when I don the paper pants from now on. Thankfully there’s plenty of luxury spa resorts from SLH to choose…

The hotel does, I’ve discovered, a ‘Culinary Delights’ break during which one gets cooking classes, meals prepared by a pro AND dining at the chef’s table. So I can learn to cook while safe in the knowledge that fine food is coming – even if my plate of is fit only for flinging in the Grand Canal.

I’ll admit, there are more typically Irish spots to stay in Dublin, but I’m a sucker for a decent spa and and an easternatmos’.
Plus I figured we would have all the Irish-ness one could ever want in the bars and streets of Dublin.
And I was not disappointed. For once I was the fraud, but the locals didn’t seem to care. Dublin is as welcoming a place as you’ll find. Inside the hotel we were royalty, outside we were long lost friends. With just about everyone.
So when your 2014 calendar arrives ignore your other half’s birthday, forget your summer holidays. Get out your green highlighter, turn straight to St Patrick’s Day, and book a flight to the Irish capital. Even if you are a Morris dancing tea drinker.

Excited does not cover it. I’m staring at my phone, awaiting the all important call, far more intently than I ever did as a teenager waiting for a boy to ring.
Something tells me that someday one of these gorgeous rescue pups is going to end up as a permanent lodger.
So, just in case, I’ve started writing a list of every slh.com property that welcomes pets – you’d be surprised how many do: Stapleford Park in the UK, IDW Esperanza in Lithuania and Villa Le Maschere in Florence as well as  Grotta Giusti Resort, Golf & Spa in Monsummano Terme . And I have the pet passport people on speed dial.
Oh, and mum, if you’re reading this be warned – you may have a furry grandchild to babysit in the not too distant future.