110.

King Abdullah and his flunky road show rolls into town; at his behest or possible beheading, so too does Sheik M (no prizes for the guessing the M word), an infrequent client of mine.

These diplomatic jollies / freebies are imparted upon both family and those who may have fallen into the King's favour, i.e. work done for the Kingdom. The entourage is holed up across three exclusively fortified floors of the Dorchester hotel, 6th, 7th and 8th (Floris toiletries).

Previously, M has taken an apartment in Mayfair, but this time around having to shadow the King, we'd arranged to rendezvous first at my place and then at his hotel.

We had a three hour window at the Office, as the King popped out to Jack Barclay to buy another dozen or so Rolls Royce's (gifts); I heard they chucked one in for free.

The understated option, a Bentley, is not an option. It has to be a Roller, usually in white and adorned with a garish gold Flying Lady; a Middle Eastern owner / driver giveaway if ever there was one.

Alack, our time spent together was little more than me being a sponge, a sounding board and sympathetic ear to all his burdens, that of having to now provide for four families back home in Saudi.

When a male family member dies i.e. brother / uncle, it falls upon Sheik M to support both the wife and children of the deceased.

If it weren’t for the fact that M was animated, moved and talked, I'd have sworn he were a chimney...twenty cigarettes in three hours!

'Ohhh...I've you're favourite, Johnny Walker Black label' said I. 'Not with the King in toe Frances, sighed M heavily, and now I must go; tomorrow at 10pm then?'

I stayed at the Dorchester for a week a couple of years back, when J, for whom I'm more of a companion (see Blog 52), came into town for a holiday. 'Gee Frances, waddya think of the Dorchester, you like it, you wanna stay there?'

'Ehhh…yes J, it’s rather nice, but we must get a suite with a view over the park;' and so it was done.

Security is tight at this hotel, yet subtle; this evening it was...well, subtle...ish. Dusky men in suits, with curly black plastic bits protruding out of their lugholes, mooched nonchalantly about the entrance and lobby.

One lift had been dedicated solely to the 6th, 7th and 8th floor, so I needed to check in at the desk, before making a phone call up to M's room.

I was escorted to the elevator; 'left out of the elevator and then right madam', said the man in the suit, whereupon, he swiped a card a pressed 6, before stepping back out.

As the doors closed, a tall dusky man with moustache scanned me up and down; I wore a demure outfit, a hem that came down to my knees and covered up my arms.

Stepping out of the elevator, I saw two rather bored look-alikes of the man downstairs, sat upon chairs. Giving me a polite and respectful nod, I acknowledged them, smiled and breezed past.

M was in his dressing gown watching CNN, which is about as informative of current world events as is the newspaper USA Today, i.e. 48 hours out of date and America centric.

Reading or viewing either of these oracles, one would be hard pressed to believe there was actually another world outside of the USA.

'Frances my darling (Arab men like using the word darling and baby), how are you, come, sit down on the sofa. I'm sorry I can't offer you any champagne baby, they've cleared all the mini bars of alcohol.' 'No matter, I replied, a fruit juice will do fine.'

I too slipped into one of the Dorchester's one inch thick, half a ton of cotton bathrobes; walking about in it was akin to a workout!

We spent the next three hours talking about Arabic culture, whilst massaging each others feet with Floris moisturiser; nothing more nothing less.

It was now 1am, M and the entourage were scheduled to have lunch with 'The Queen' (HRH), and so we called it a night.

M. Frances baby, open the safe and take your gift.

I punched in the combination...XXXX

Me. Hmmm...seems you're the keeper of the purse then (spying some £100,000 in fresh £50 notes).

M. It's for emergencies darling.

Me. Is it best I count it out in front of you?

M. Take whatever.

Me. I'll take whatever we agreed.

M. No, take more darling…take XXXX.

Me. But...but that's way more!

M. It doesn't matter baby, please...I’ve been so miserable and you've made me feel happy; I insist!

Me. Ehhh...well OK M, if you insist; thank you.

Walking out onto Park Lane and into the cool late evening air, I reflected on how different our previous meeting together had been.

We’d danced and banqueted four nights on the trot, ordering out from the wonderful Lebanese restaurant Al Hamra in Shepherds market.

M drank his Johnny Walker with cocaine, whilst I glugged copious amounts of Dom Perignon and I drew upon my Partagas No 4 cigar.

Ah well...and who says money is the answer to all their troubles? Anon.