The Waldorf London

We stayed in very nice room, but there ARE some differences at the Waldorf compared to what you’d see in an American hotel.

I think the American hoteliers actually STAY in the rooms they design  – or at least pretend to – when they do the layout.  Granted, of course, most American hotels are not as old as this one (and it’s a relative newcomer on the scene, built in 1908), but there’s some wacky details I do not understand.

Adjusting the temperature in the room requires the application of boobages to the television.  The only way to reach the switch is to lean waaaaaaay over and attempt to discern the hieroglyphics on the thermostat… which appear to be in the original Egyptian.

Lean further, squinting.  Television totters precariously if you’re over a C cup.

Adjust thermostat, hoping in vain for a change in temperature, which finally occurs hours later… as the damn thing senses your exit from the shower.

The tub…It’s perfect.  Absolutely perfect.

If you’re an Olympic gymnast.  My other half’s observation:  wow, it’s high up.  And big.

Kinda depends on how you define “big”.  It’s big like the airlines define big.  You can be of greater than average height, but you better have some skinnyass hips.

First, you figure out the plumbing.  Two sets of taps.  Check.

Then the splash guard.  Instead of a shower curtain, they use these acrylic flappy things.  That has to be positioned outta the way as you vault your nekkid ass over the side of Gargantua the Bathtub that Ate Londontown like some porno circus performer.

BWAH.  With great good fortune, you land on your feet.  Which, if your boats are larger than a ladies 8W, will be standing on top of each other due to the width of the bottom of the tub.  Gargantua slims down to a petite little waif at the bottom.

Hence my reticence for actually bathing as opposed to showering.  Much like my disinclination to ascend the climbing structures at the local McDonalds, I hesitate as extraction could involve two firetrucks and the biggest fukkin’ plunger known to man.

At the slightest misstep, you stand on the bath plug, which, given Gargantua’s delicate little bottom, fills at an alarming pace as you shower as you find you’ve stopped up the tub.

Blind, bucknaked, soapy and slithering, you attempt to locate the plug release (and note to the hoteliers of the world:  I LOATHE those stupid “rainshower” shower heads.  It’s like being a fireman on the mountainside when the sooper scooper (water dropping helicopter) dumps it’s load).

Fondling around the end of the tub, cussing, as you try to figure out what, exactly, is preventing the plug from popping up.  Finally, give up and determine the dismount from Gargantua will require your most accomplished gymnastic maneuver to date.


Can’t hold on the acrylic flap, it’s slippery, as is the side of the tub.  No handrail at all.  The only thing available is what made me drool as I walked in, but now appears as a medieval torture device:  the towel warmer.

With an ominous warning of “HOT!  DO NOT TOUCH!” it occurs to me there is the potential for not only going AOT (arse over t…) smacko into that weird circular tube of a toilet, you could have a courtesy third degree burn on your mitt to boot.

Double sh!t.

I take my towel off the rack and am oddly disappointed it’s cold.  What a gyp… until I realize I might not have a warm and snuggy towel (well, okay, part of it was soggy due to the height of the bathwater at that point), but I can at least exit the tub without breaking a limb.

The hotel itself is in the best location if you’re doing the theaters.  All in all, I loved it.  Theater in the evening, quick walk back to the hotel for the night.  Ahhhh…

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