Turkey Leftovers
It's been an odd week. Strangely, it's taken me less time to get over the weekend's hospitable insanity than the BMW trip. I think that's because nice hotels in the UK are something occasionally in our grasp. Weekends where you eat several grands worth of caviar (I finished somewhere around the £4K mark), get plied with Dom Perignon Vintage 2000, have bottles of Hennessy XO presented to you, bump into Sharon Stone on the dance floor while Seal's performing and it's still - technically - "just" a barbecue, stand about four feet away from Mariah Carey while she sings Hero, get so close to Sir Thomas of Jones you can feel the charisma... Well, that sort of thing doesn't happen often. And for "often" read "ever again in your life".
With a deadline looming, I should be trying to put the experience into words but it's so difficult when it seems so unreal. The sheer scale of the Mardan is outlandish: I can walk from my front door to Finchley Central station in less time than it took to walk from my hotel room to the hotel's private beach. That's an analogy that only works if you know me / have been here, of course, but the whole scale of the place is hard to put across. It's just, like, really big, you know?
With a deadline looming, I should be trying to put the experience into words but it's so difficult when it seems so unreal. The sheer scale of the Mardan is outlandish: I can walk from my front door to Finchley Central station in less time than it took to walk from my hotel room to the hotel's private beach. That's an analogy that only works if you know me / have been here, of course, but the whole scale of the place is hard to put across. It's just, like, really big, you know?
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