“Seriously? You have a bath and a kettle in your room?” I said to new Club Med friend Els. “It must be a deluxe one: I was told they’d done away with most of them in the refurb – part of an economy drive around water. I agree with that – but I do love a soak in the bath after a hard day’s table tennis and lounging by the pool.”
It was the first of many changes I spotted during my week at Da Balaia. It seemed that like some of its guests and the world at large, Club Med is also partial to an identity crisis: Rooms are refreshed; a newly decorated bar upstairs is all blonde wood; the nightclub area bright and airy, however in the communal areas the same old comforting carpet greeted me – a little tired around the edges now.
I followed crowds of beards from a tech company visiting for a conference to the dining room for lunch.
Ines, a Gentil Organisateur (G.O.) tore me away from frowning at chipped plates and cups, and the large round table next to me of eight French bloggers superglued to their ‘phones.
“So, how was your morning?” she asked, smiling. I told her what I’d done and hadn’t done and we found shared experiences to bond over.
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m on holiday, not in Maida Vale” I said to The Brunette – my dinner companion for the evening. Contemplating the decor of our newest local restaurant immediately imbued a sense of relaxation and calm. Dark wood, mirrored strips on walls – a nod to Japanese lacquer – minimal tables and a soupçon of light jazz to be heard in the background provided the comfort of the traditional with the frisson of the new.
Manners maketh man and most certainly add to the enjoyment of dinner out on a Wednesday night. Politely we were asked what we’d like to drink. We discussed the options with Toru the owner: “Try the sparkling Sake” he told us, “It’s light, not too strong, I think you’ll be okay.” He was right; gently floral, the colour of effervescent water it was to be relished for itself rather than any unwanted effects.
We took our food recommendations from Ken: “This is nothing special” he repeatedly told us. Yellowtailed carpaccio with truffle oil, grilled asparagus with sesame dressing defined with threads of chilli as a starter told us otherwise.
There was a time, not so long ago, when the word that a new restaurant in town had opened, had you hot footing it down there to steal the ashtray and collect the matches while dining on all the alcohol you could possibly manage and shooting the calorie counter up to eleven. The naughtier and more generously appointed the dish the better.
I laid the loaf of sourdough bread down on the floor, alongside my faux fur and handbag. “Jeez, it’s hot in here” I said to my Goldie Hawn Lookalike (GHL) of a neighbour. A glass of Walter’s Royal Riesling Sekt Brut in hand I spied the canapés on offer. Geraldine – the generous owner of 
When you’re in the West End of London town and feeling peckish at lunchtime, it’s hard to escape the pull of the ubiquitous fast food chains for a re-fuel: Mayfair, home of the £20 cocktail is especially challenging.
“Whaddya mean you’re having another double espresso?! What’s the matter with you Al?!”
“Ah, the crystal of Belarus; unsurpassed” said a man leaning against one of the many bars at this elegant townhouse club in Soho, holding his whiskey glass up to examine it.
One of my favourite things to do is to take myself out for dinner. The venue is crucial. One has to feel at ease – dining alone is not for the faint hearted after all. But, if you should happen upon the right place, it’s heavenly.
You know you’ve got a good New Year’s Eve on your hands when you sweep through two sets of grand curtains to be met by a kilt wearing Scot brandishing a saxophone. I say sweep, because that’s all you can do in a Tiffany-style 
Conversations with Strangers 