The Ritz

With the gentle swoosh of the revolving doors, I walked into 19th Century decadence, the colours and sounds so rich and velvety welcomed me like a warm silk duvet, shutting out the grey, damp, struggling world outside.

Elaborately carved cornices gilded in gold curled around the ceiling and down the walls, supported by a heavy floral theme of plush carpets and ornate arrangements, reflected in the panels of mirrors in a confusion of pinks, whites, and golds. People talked in hushed voices or through their expensive fur wraps, while a pianist carefully wove his music into the air thickened with the scent of luxury and designer parfums. Men in tails bowed slightly as I passed offering crisp directions when asked.

I chose a seat at a table, soaking in the beautifully-laid tea before me: the sugar cubes and thongs, the delicately arranged plates of scones, pastries, and sandwiches, the long delicate knives and forks that lay beside the red and gold china. Then there were the waiters, bending over to offer you a drink with a gentle, French-accented murmur, Tea, with milk? Water? Still or sparkling, Madam. Some juice perhaps? And they would disappear on silent feet to fulfill your request.

Sheer magic.