144.

It's 9am as our train pulls out of the magnificently restored St Pancras station.

To think, they actually wanted to demolish this place back in the 60's, thanks to ' John Betjeman' they didn't; we're headed for 'Gay Paree' and a few days of well earned R&R.

Arriving at Gard de Nore, we tear down the platform to be first in line for a taxi; dilly dally along now and you'll find yourself at the back of a queue for some forty minutes; we waited just the five.

Due to our early arrival at the hotel, Park Hyatt Vendome (Blaise Mautin toiletries), the room wasn't yet ready. No matter, we decide to take a stroll and have ourselves some brunch but, not before meeting with the hotel's GM for a personal greeting; much fawning and bending over of the back did ensue, as well as a major room upgrade.

You see, N holds a 'special card,' presented to him in gratitude of a selfless act of generosity toward the staff of one their hotels several years ago. 'Frances, see this card, its paid me back a hundred times,' and it continues to stand him in good stead.

After brunch I decided to make use of the hotel's spa, but oppps, I've forgotten to pack my swimsuit. Now, I can be quite dexterous with a towel in the steam/sauna, but sitting in a Jacuzzi with a towel wrapped about myself, well, that's just plain odd, nor would it be too popular with the spa staff.

And so, I walked the block to 'Galeries Lafayette' to buy a swimsuit. Riffling through the racks, I was surprised at how expensive they were; I thought, hang on a minute, this is France, the country that gave us topless bathing.

I settled on a pair of bikini shorts, thus saving myself 50% on the price of buying both pants and bra; I'm frugal. Of all the days I used the spa I saw just one person in there, it was nice having it all to myself; it also gave me the opportunity to take lots and lots of toiletries, unnoticed.

But the biggest kick I got whilst in Paris was...pedalling about on a bicycle! These are dotted all over the City and if you can return it to a bike station within half an hour, that's all you pay; this is pretty easy to do as there are several thousand bikes and many stations.

The scheme 'Velib', is not meant as a profit making exercise (listen up London) but rather, to encourage people to get out of their cars and commute about town in a greener/healthier way; it seems to be working.

So inspired was I, that when I got back to London, I went straight out and purchased myself an English built Pashley bicycle. Not only is it fun and usually faster than a bus, but along with my jogging, it'll help keep me fit; and everyone said 'Amen' to Frances' toned legs, thighs and bum!

However it has to be said, breaking in that Brooks leather saddle has left one feeling...ehhh...a little tender and I'm not so sure about the Lycra shorts look, well I mean, it just might give the whole game away, if you get my drift? Anon.

143.

Oh the scandal...!

I met X down at Lola a few weeks before the MP's expenses scandal broke. X, Conservative MP for a Southern Shire, had stumbled upon the club by chance...hmmm?

'So, how did you find us,' I enquired, 'Oh...I was just walking by and saw it;' not likely I thought to myself, but he was here now and that's all that matters.

We engaged in conversation for some ten minutes before I said, 'Forgive me, but I'm just having a bite to eat up in the restaurant, do you mind if I pop back down in twenty minutes?' 'Well I've not ate yet either, can I join you,' and so we continued our conversation over dinner.

X was curious to know about me and the club, then proceeded to tell me about him and his various business interests. Funny that, I thought, where does he find the time to trek off abroad to look after these business's, isn't he suppose to be looking after the interests of his constituency, the one's who voted him in; isn't that a full-time job?

I asked for the bill; 'No no, please, let me get this Frances;' the government picking up the tab for my dinner, sure, I can deal with that!

We retired back downstairs to the club; whilst he mixed and mingled freely, me being the good host, went off and worked the room. I sometimes have a photographer who'll take pictures for the Lola website, however, he's under strict instructions to ask peoples permission first, as I wouldn't want to compromise anyone's identity.

X was happy to be photographed with me, I asked if he'd mind if I put it up on the site, he was fine with that. Before leaving, a little before midnight, he gave me his card and asked if I'd like to join him for lunch at the 'House of Commons' the following week, I promised to call him after I'd checked my diary.

My morning routine is to first read my mail, check if all my sites are up and running and then go to the BBC News website to catch up on the all latest. This morning however I jumped; splattered across the front page of the news was a photo of X, he'd been implicated in the expenses scandal, oh my.

Not wanting to compromise either he or myself, I went straight into the Lola site and took down his picture; I didn't relish the thought of some journalist raking about for a back-story...X + Lola + Fransexual = yet another scandal?

Oh dear, so does this implicate 'me' in the present MP's expenses debacle...marvellous! Well, I guess that free lunch gratis of Her Majesty's government has been knocked on the head then, damn! Anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

Essays: Francis Bacon.

142.

It's 1am and in my darkened bedroom and a damn mosquito is buzzing around my ear; I switch the light on, it hides, I switch it off and the bloody thing goes in for the bite again; it's me or it!

With a can of bug killer in one hand, a torch in the other, I go mozzie hunting around the room. Scanning the ceiling I spy him sat on the ceiling cornice; I make my move and extinguished the enemy; now perhaps I can get some sleep?

I'd only got to bed at 7am that morning, due to a late gig then chilling out with 'The Frantastics', I'd taken several naps throughout the day to get me by, but now I'm restless and mozzie hunting hasn't helped any either.

At 1:30am my phone rings; 'Hello, is that Frances; I'm sorry it's late, but I just got in from Australia this evening and I'm jet lagged; is there any chance you can come over to my hotel for a few hours; I'm staying at Blakes (The White Company toiletries) in South Kensington.'

I think to myself, ah what the heck, I can't sleep anyway and he sounds a nice enough chap; 'Well, it's going to be about 2:30am before I can get to you, would you still like me to come over?'

Blakes is a small boutique hotel, favoured by the music and film set; N being the former and a big cheese in Australia's music business. He was stood outside the hotel having a smoke and taking in the cool night air, cool enough for me to not need a coat, just a light floaty gossamer dress, heels and stockings.

'Hello Frances;' he greets me with a handshake and kiss on the cheek; 'very classy, very discreet.' 'Ha, did you expect me to turn up looking like something out of Pretty Woman,' I reply.

We enter the lobby, the concierge at the front desk acknowledges us with a nod; this hotel has a reputation for keeping schtum regarding their rich and famous guest’s comings and goings, thus the reason it's popular with them.

The suitcases scattered about the suite were half-unpacked; N, having just landed had obviously dashed out to some business dinner (or he was a messy pup), in this case, to Mr Chow's.

A bottle of fizz sat chilling in an ice bucket; good man, that'll do nicely I thought.’ Do you have a curfew Frances, can you stay until 7am, I just want to have a good time and relax,' enquired N.

With a wrap of coke and a bag of dope next to a half drunken bottle of beer, his mission to chill looked pretty much on course to me! Cracking open the champagne he poured me a glass then rolled a dollar bill, 'would like a line too Frances, 'not for me thanks; I'm happy with the bubbles if you don't mind?'

The CD's supplied in the room weren't much cop, so I popped out to the car and got something better to listen to; I now keep a selection of music in my dedicated 'Hotel visits bag' for future occasions.

We spent some four hours talking; massaging each other whilst laid out across the four-poster bed; took a shower together for no particular reason and played a little.

N had conference calls to make back to Oz at 7am, so we did a room tidy before I left. I disposed the remnants of his dope smoking down to loo; folded up the clothes spewing out of his suitcases and neatly stacked several thousand dollars that had been thrown upon the desk and coffee table:

I tell you, Australian dollars are strange things, cleanable (spilt Fosters?); they have the texture of greaseproof paper and have little clear plastic windows you can see through; most unusual.

It was 8am when I finally crawled into bed, accompanied by a long and well deserved glass of champagne. As I was driving I couldn't glug the whole bottle and so took the remains of it with me; I sure didn't have any trouble dropping off to sleep after that! Anon.

What I'm reading in bed...

The Uncommon Reader. Alan Bennett.

141.

All aboard, all aboard!

Living this serendipitous life of mine, I find myself in some rather unusual situations; it also affords me the opportunity to get up to some pretty cool stuff too!

The latest fun thing was to be invited for a day out aboard The Orient Express.

(Click Here) to view the video.

T (see Blog 127) was back in town for a month's holiday, spent riding 'First class' up and down the country on a train; I’d like give that a whirl myself one day; Britain’s countryside seen from the window of a moving train, has to be one of natures most beautiful views (courtesy of all that rain).

I’m no early bird, though, I’m told as one gets older we need less sleep; might it also be the dread of snoozing away one’s autumn years? Anyways, I had to be up at 7am for to be at Victoria station, as our train was due to leave at 9am.

Eleven 1920's Pullman coaches stood ready to depart and whisk us away on a four hour journey to the spa town of Bath. We'd be taking the slower scenic route; first south, then west, before heading north toward Bath.

As the train pulled slowly away, commuters alighting on the opposite platform smiled, some waved, a few even scowled, envious and disgruntled with the whole affair and hey, who could blame them?

Grey suburbia past by our window, the clumps of bluebells along the cuttings cheered our view. At 9:30am a champagne breakfast was served at our table; what a civilised way to slip into one's day, I thought. The scene had now turned rural, spring lambs jumped and suckled in the green and pleasant fields of England.

We were encouraged to walk the length of the train and view all eleven coaches. Now, although they may look uniformly the same from outside, in their distinctive chocolate and mustard livery, within, each carriage is unique.


The lamps and fittings (brass or chrome) are 20's Deco, the walls richly panelled and veneered. The loo's are panelled too (and creaky), the mosaic floors depict some bygone Roman Emperor. Funny that, the face of the once most powerful man on earth, relegated to a toilet floor upon which one stands to take a wee...hmmm?

Arriving in Bath sometime after 1pm, we were given the option of a two hour Tour Bus. The lure of sitting on a bus didn’t quite cut the mustard after four hours on the Orient Express, so, T and I opted to kick about its historic streets.

Actually, Bath is a City, you need to have a cathedral to be called a City (Wakefield is the exception).

I take great umbrage with any 'House of God' that would have the nerve to charge me to enter, either to admirer the handiwork or to simply worship. Yes, I’m quite aware of running costs and I’m more than happy to give a donation, but if you’re going to insist I pay to come in, then I’ll spin on my heels and walk the other way.

This particular cathedral (Bath) suggests a donation, but it's not compulsory for admittance; sadly, as a Christian, Westminster Abbey's charge of £15 to enter and pray, embarrasses me.

We took tea in the splendid Georgian Pump Room; I had a glass of the warm spa water which comes straight up from the ground; it tasted rather odd, like boiled kettle water gone cool; I'm sure it would taste better chilled?

4pm and we were back on the train; T had arranged for a chilled bottle of champers to be served as we pulled out of Bath station for our four hour journey back to London.

An hour into the ride and a four course silver service dinner later, we nodded off awhile, sinking deeply into our sumptuous cushioned winged armchairs. The combination of arising early and daytime drinking is not one of my fortes; we pulled into Victoria station a little after 8pm.

The Maitre D took my hand and helped me down off the train; 'Did you enjoy your day Madam,' 'Oh yes, I replied, it was wonderful, but I rather hoped I'd find a murdered body.' 'Well Madam, if you'd cared to look around you may have noticed a few;' referring to a few of the more elderly passengers; a bit cheeky I thought, but an amusing observation.

Flying Easyjet is never going to be quite the same; anon.

140.

The last time I saw E, some eight months ago, he was busily engaged in a foursome.

A girl I occasionally entertain with had suggested to the others flagging there, 'Let's call Frances, she'll get things going;' and so I was invited to join in their little soiree/orgy of three girls and E.

The girls looked weary from four hours of partying, coke and champers; E however, was still in his stride. I injected a new twist into the proceedings and a welcome distraction, before bringing things to a close.

Being in a room full of coked up people can be quite amusing, observing everyone scurrying about like ants on the move, racing around both physically and emotionally; in this instance, naked ants.

Of course, those who indulge themselves are quite oblivious to this, being high they're beyond seeing the larger picture or the finer detail of what's actually going on around themselves.

I like a drink, but I'd never drink to the point of compromising my situation or integrity, where I was no longer in control or couldn't see below the water line. It's not that I'm some control freak but rather, I've lived my whole life in one role or another, as both provider and protector.

E and I had been trying to link up since then, but with one thing and another, we just couldn't find a date to settle on. 'Frances, I'm flying into City airport next week, what's the chance of me coming over Friday teatime?' ''Sure E, consider it done, I'll put it in the diary right now!'

Sixty-something, tall, distinguished and speaking in a plumy voice, E looks like he could be a Tory MP; I later found out that he did run for Parliament, but wound up as an adviser in the Thatcher government.

'Do you like caviar Frances,' said E as he handed me a bottle of champagne and a black and gold box, 'Ohhh yes, but lets crack this bottle first; I'll put this in the fridge for later.' We sat on the sofa and caught up on the news.

‘Do you know any girls who might like to join us,’ E asked. I went through my list of suitable girls; V couldn’t make it as she had a prior engagement; M wasn’t answering her phone and N must have changed her number, as all I got was a dead line. ‘Well E, it looks like it’s just you and me kid.'

It was just as well we didn’t get anyone over, as we’d only been in the boudoir some thirty minutes before he'd blown his gasket. ‘E, I jokingly scolded, there was at least half a dozen other position to do before blowing your top!’ ‘Oh dear I’m sorry Frances, please take it as a compliment;’ I accepted the compliment.

I went and fetched another bottle of champers from the fridge. ‘Are you hungry Frances,’ ‘Yeah, I’m famished, lets go get something to eat; there’s a wonderful Michelin star Indian just around he corner, Cafe Spice, lets cab it there!’

I can’t eat Indian food more than once a month, it’s so heavy, but the food at Cafe Spice doesn’t leave one feeling like that, it has a lightness to it; although it’s rather heavy on the pocket.

Having polished off a bottle of pinot noir over dinner, I'd began to wane; E didn‘t look like he was up for a 100 yard dash either, so kept me amused with tales of shenanigans at Conservative party office and strange goings on behind the doors of 'Number 10.'

Let me take a moment here to give you a little tip...unless one cares to look like Shane MacGowan, a gal should never drink anything heavier than a pinot noir whilst out in public. Having met Shane on many occasion down at Gerry's, with hand on heart, I can vouch the look is not becoming.

It was 9pm; E flagged a cab and dropped me back at the Office before continuing on; I took a hot shower in the hope it might revive me, it didn't; so it was on with my jim jams and to the fridge for a glass of milk before bed.

But look...oh dear it's the caviar, I’d quite forgotten all about it. In the sealed Caviar House black box was a weenie 30 gram tin of Beluga, I picked it up and read the receipt, £150...ouch! Right then, that’s breakfast sorted, caviar and the remainder of last nights champers; very nice. Anon.