The Tower and the Friends.
There is something slightly terrifying about being introduced to a new boyfriends' friends... especially when you are meeting them all in the space of a week. No gently gently approach, more a wham bam, here they are.
Two of these friends, I met on a Monday evening for a quick drink before going into the Tower of London for a special night time tour. I wanted to give a good impression so I took a while to get ready and gave myself an hour to get there. I had decided to drive instead of using the tube because the tube stresses me out at the best of times, and I had also found a really quick route in the car that ran directly along the edge of the Congestion Zone. This is an invisible border around central London... inside the zone, you pay £10, outside the zone, you can drive for free. I managed to keep on the outside of this nightmare line until the last 3 yards of my journey. I saw a car park, turned left excitedly, and realised I had just entered the zone. Damn damn damn. The car park was a complete rabbit warren and I couldn't keep track of what floor I was on because I seemed to go endlessly down dizzying spiral ramps... once parked, I had absolutely no idea where I was. I finally saw a square of light and aimed for that, hoping it was an exit. It opened out onto an airless stairwell that seemed to go up and up with no vanishing point, so I climbed about 4 flights and finally came to another door, exhausted. This opened out on to a lorry and coach park... almost pitch black with no visible exit either. I hadn't actually seen a human since entering the car park so my heart was thumping wildly. I walked around in circles and finally saw a sinister-looking man standing stock-still behind a large bin, eyes to the floor. I managed a petrified squawk as I asked him where the exit was and he simply pointed across the garage floor. I finally emerged breathless and blinking, like a mole from the earth, but before I could become fully acclimatised, I saw a traffic warden and charged across the road to ask about paying the congestion charge. Eyes watering from the bright sunlight, I tripped up the pavement and went flying, landing on my knees at his feet. "If you are begging to be let off a ticket, I won't do it", he said with a laugh as I struggled to get up. I scowled at him for a minute or so but suddenly realised my right knee was killing me so I bent down and lifted up my skirt, looking under my dress to see what damage I had done... which must have looked a bit odd to passers-by. I had a graze and a bit of a bruise forming so went off in search of some antiseptic wipes and some Arnica. 20 minutes later, armed with my first aid, I headed hurriedly to the pub to meet Mr. Blue, now very very late. I caught my reflection in the glass on the way in and was horrified. I had started off my journey, neat, smooth, blow-dried and calm and the last hour had produced a ruffled, creased and sweaty mess. My hair was plastered across my forehead and my dress looked like I had just run it over. Nooooo!! Of course, Mr. Blue was terribly polite and just said "You look lovely" with a tiny amused smile. His two friends were charming and friendly and didn't let on that I looked a complete mess, which was a relief.
We made our way to the Tower and were escorted in. Once inside the 15 foot thick stone walls, it is a silent, dark, haunting place but with nearly a thousand years of gruesome history, it's no surprise that you can feel the ghosts. Large black ravens peck at unidentified remains lying on the cobblestones, ominous shadows fall at your feet and you suddenly realise that once you enter the Tower, you can't get out again. The giant gates are locked behind you by a huge, burly Beefeater so there's no arguing with that. We wandered over the cobbles as the light faded, hearing only our echoing footsteps, past the exact spot where many many people lost their heads. We heard macabre stories of botched beheadings, of torture and murder, and as night fell we went to the pub for dinner. Yup, not only do the Beefeaters live within the walls but they also have their own pub. We had sausages and mash, peas and gravy... good hearty English food. I say English because our particular Yeoman was very upfront about saying he hated the Scottish, the Welsh and the Irish. Poor Mr. Blue kept very quiet! I can't repeat what he said about the French but it wasn't: 'Gosh, isn't Paris lovely this time of year, I just adore the French'. Americans didn't escape his sharp tongue either, in fact, he didn't have anything good to say about anyone other than fellow Englishmen. I think that sort of back-slapping, jovial racism goes with the job really... Beefeaters can only qualify for the job if they have served as an Officer in the British Armed Forces for at least 22 years. After dinner we were led out to see the Ceremony of the Keys... a tradition of locking the Tower with the same set of keys, dating back 700 years, never missed, and only late once... when the Tower was bombed during an air raid in World War II. The Yeomen on duty simply brushed themselves off and carried on. It was a fantastic experience and I felt very privileged, and because his friends had been so lovely and welcoming it also made me less nervous about meeting the rest of Mr. Blue's chums.
3 days later I met his best friend, and 5 other friends, all in one sitting. I did feel a bit like a gladiator being led into the arena, about to be fed to the lions, because these weren't normal people. They were detectives. And they weren't going to just make small talk and ask me about the weather, these guys were professionals. Every eye movement and hair flick would be picked up and analysed. My speech patterns, my body language, was I sweating or fidgeting? If I accidentally looked up and left, would they think I was lying... what was the expression "lefty lying, righty remembering"? Oh God. The lions den was a pub in Soho and as I walked in there with Mr. Blue, the interrogators were there at the front table, facing the door, in a semi-circle. Two chairs were positioned in front of them slightly away from the table. Bloody hell. I suddenly panicked and thought the only way to break the ice, as I walked in, was to curtsy and do some jazz hands and a 'ta dah'. That sounds a really hideous 'luvvie' attempt to lighten the mood and it could have gone horribly wrong but, thank god, it actually seemed to work. They laughed and we all just seemed to let out a big sigh of relief. They, I was told later, were just as nervous.
The only slightly scary moment was when his best friend cornered me after a few drinks and with a big grin and a bear hug, whispered in my ear, "Just don't break my friend's heart or I will track you down" in a tone not dissimilar to Liam Neeson in the film 'Taken', when he tells his daughters' kidnappers... "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you."
I was inclined to believe him. So after that slightly nerve wracking moment, and a few stiff drinks, things were completely relaxed and lovely and I had an amazing evening. I got good feedback the next day apparently too, so thats a plus. I passed. Yay. I will get my own back though. In two weeks time, he gets to meet my close friends, in one sitting. Only 8 of us. What could possibly be intimidating about that?
Two of these friends, I met on a Monday evening for a quick drink before going into the Tower of London for a special night time tour. I wanted to give a good impression so I took a while to get ready and gave myself an hour to get there. I had decided to drive instead of using the tube because the tube stresses me out at the best of times, and I had also found a really quick route in the car that ran directly along the edge of the Congestion Zone. This is an invisible border around central London... inside the zone, you pay £10, outside the zone, you can drive for free. I managed to keep on the outside of this nightmare line until the last 3 yards of my journey. I saw a car park, turned left excitedly, and realised I had just entered the zone. Damn damn damn. The car park was a complete rabbit warren and I couldn't keep track of what floor I was on because I seemed to go endlessly down dizzying spiral ramps... once parked, I had absolutely no idea where I was. I finally saw a square of light and aimed for that, hoping it was an exit. It opened out onto an airless stairwell that seemed to go up and up with no vanishing point, so I climbed about 4 flights and finally came to another door, exhausted. This opened out on to a lorry and coach park... almost pitch black with no visible exit either. I hadn't actually seen a human since entering the car park so my heart was thumping wildly. I walked around in circles and finally saw a sinister-looking man standing stock-still behind a large bin, eyes to the floor. I managed a petrified squawk as I asked him where the exit was and he simply pointed across the garage floor. I finally emerged breathless and blinking, like a mole from the earth, but before I could become fully acclimatised, I saw a traffic warden and charged across the road to ask about paying the congestion charge. Eyes watering from the bright sunlight, I tripped up the pavement and went flying, landing on my knees at his feet. "If you are begging to be let off a ticket, I won't do it", he said with a laugh as I struggled to get up. I scowled at him for a minute or so but suddenly realised my right knee was killing me so I bent down and lifted up my skirt, looking under my dress to see what damage I had done... which must have looked a bit odd to passers-by. I had a graze and a bit of a bruise forming so went off in search of some antiseptic wipes and some Arnica. 20 minutes later, armed with my first aid, I headed hurriedly to the pub to meet Mr. Blue, now very very late. I caught my reflection in the glass on the way in and was horrified. I had started off my journey, neat, smooth, blow-dried and calm and the last hour had produced a ruffled, creased and sweaty mess. My hair was plastered across my forehead and my dress looked like I had just run it over. Nooooo!! Of course, Mr. Blue was terribly polite and just said "You look lovely" with a tiny amused smile. His two friends were charming and friendly and didn't let on that I looked a complete mess, which was a relief.
We made our way to the Tower and were escorted in. Once inside the 15 foot thick stone walls, it is a silent, dark, haunting place but with nearly a thousand years of gruesome history, it's no surprise that you can feel the ghosts. Large black ravens peck at unidentified remains lying on the cobblestones, ominous shadows fall at your feet and you suddenly realise that once you enter the Tower, you can't get out again. The giant gates are locked behind you by a huge, burly Beefeater so there's no arguing with that. We wandered over the cobbles as the light faded, hearing only our echoing footsteps, past the exact spot where many many people lost their heads. We heard macabre stories of botched beheadings, of torture and murder, and as night fell we went to the pub for dinner. Yup, not only do the Beefeaters live within the walls but they also have their own pub. We had sausages and mash, peas and gravy... good hearty English food. I say English because our particular Yeoman was very upfront about saying he hated the Scottish, the Welsh and the Irish. Poor Mr. Blue kept very quiet! I can't repeat what he said about the French but it wasn't: 'Gosh, isn't Paris lovely this time of year, I just adore the French'. Americans didn't escape his sharp tongue either, in fact, he didn't have anything good to say about anyone other than fellow Englishmen. I think that sort of back-slapping, jovial racism goes with the job really... Beefeaters can only qualify for the job if they have served as an Officer in the British Armed Forces for at least 22 years. After dinner we were led out to see the Ceremony of the Keys... a tradition of locking the Tower with the same set of keys, dating back 700 years, never missed, and only late once... when the Tower was bombed during an air raid in World War II. The Yeomen on duty simply brushed themselves off and carried on. It was a fantastic experience and I felt very privileged, and because his friends had been so lovely and welcoming it also made me less nervous about meeting the rest of Mr. Blue's chums.
3 days later I met his best friend, and 5 other friends, all in one sitting. I did feel a bit like a gladiator being led into the arena, about to be fed to the lions, because these weren't normal people. They were detectives. And they weren't going to just make small talk and ask me about the weather, these guys were professionals. Every eye movement and hair flick would be picked up and analysed. My speech patterns, my body language, was I sweating or fidgeting? If I accidentally looked up and left, would they think I was lying... what was the expression "lefty lying, righty remembering"? Oh God. The lions den was a pub in Soho and as I walked in there with Mr. Blue, the interrogators were there at the front table, facing the door, in a semi-circle. Two chairs were positioned in front of them slightly away from the table. Bloody hell. I suddenly panicked and thought the only way to break the ice, as I walked in, was to curtsy and do some jazz hands and a 'ta dah'. That sounds a really hideous 'luvvie' attempt to lighten the mood and it could have gone horribly wrong but, thank god, it actually seemed to work. They laughed and we all just seemed to let out a big sigh of relief. They, I was told later, were just as nervous.
The only slightly scary moment was when his best friend cornered me after a few drinks and with a big grin and a bear hug, whispered in my ear, "Just don't break my friend's heart or I will track you down" in a tone not dissimilar to Liam Neeson in the film 'Taken', when he tells his daughters' kidnappers... "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you."
I was inclined to believe him. So after that slightly nerve wracking moment, and a few stiff drinks, things were completely relaxed and lovely and I had an amazing evening. I got good feedback the next day apparently too, so thats a plus. I passed. Yay. I will get my own back though. In two weeks time, he gets to meet my close friends, in one sitting. Only 8 of us. What could possibly be intimidating about that?
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