A London Transsexual Escort 247.

It’s March and 2-½ cm of snow has fallen upon the capital, that’s 1 inch in old money and the usual chaos has ensued.
Public transport has ground to a teeth-chattering halt, planes have been grounded due to the apocalyptic snowfall whilst headlines proclaim, The Beast From The East, 'We blame the Russians!' But really what they should be saying is, Light Dusting of Snow Falls Upon Rooftops, 'Oh just take the day off.' This, is an occasional occurrence, perhaps every 3-4 years at the most, but folk here in London town still react with an utter shock of the white stuff.
The smart money resigns to this unexpected, though welcomed excuse for a few extra days off work, compliments of Mother Nature. The stoic soldier on, taking a quarter of their day to get into work, spending half a day at their desk, before leaving early to battle their way back home again for the remaining quarter of the day; they’ll do this for the duration. 
As expected, the ‘Office’ is rather quiet, as half of my clientele travel in from outside London for business (and dalliance), so for me, it’s an enforced holiday too, time to spend sharpening the scythe. Easter and Bank Holiday’s are the same, there's always a few nibbles but generally, it’s all quiet on the front…and the rear too.
I took a day trip east to Margate on the weekend, in its heyday, this was a grand Victorian seaside town. The seafront still boasts a few fine Art-Deco buildings along its sweeping promenade of Victorian shops, houses, streets and cobbled lanes, but its glory has long since faded, it’s not so much shabby chic as, well...shabby. The last decade saw a positive attempt to regenerate the town, but it feels like the locals have all but given up on it, perhaps it’s too big a place?
It’s the day-trippers who help keep its head above the waterline, and the newly built Turner gallery pulls in a steady flow of out of towners; however, the cavalry may be on the horizon. A slow but steady trickle of entrepreneurial DFL’s i.e. ‘Down from London’ and ‘Hipsters,’ are moving in, it’s cheaper and many of them can work from home, commuting into London once a week for meetings, a beard trim and wax. Perhaps they’ll provide the much needed shot in the arm of investment, optimism, and supply and demand it so sorely needs, I'd like to think so. 
This has successfully happened in several English towns along the southeastern coast in the last twenty years, though they’ve been notable smaller places (except Brighton).
March is also my birthday, the day went like this…
The Churchill (drink)The Cow (eat & drink)The Westbourne (drink)The Red Lion (drink)Le Beaujolais (eat & drink)Cork & Bottle (drink)Quo Vadis (drink)Groucho Club (drink)French House (drink)Trisha’s Club (drink)
I was pleased to wake the next day without a crashing hangover. There’s much to be said about pacing oneself, and as the sign on the wall of the bar stated, 'Life's too short to drink bad wine,' cheers.
What I'm reading in bed...
A Year In Provence: Peter Mayle.
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