A chapter from the book

Gabodian is sitting two aisles up from me, on the aisle seat, where I can see him easily. Occasionally he talks to the blonde chick who's with him, but most of the time he's stuffing his face with whatever he can get the stewardess to bring him. He's a fat guy. I sit and read the newspapers and drink the 12 year old Glenlivet which the airline kindly offers. I have no problem with drinking when working. I refuse the meal as I have to be able to move at the key moment. Which also means I can't nod off as we traverse the Atlantic.

After four hours I go to one of toilets and fix the handle so it will read 'Occupied' when I leave. About six hours into the journey, Gabodian finally gets up out of his seat. So do I and precede him, getting to the other toilet ahead of him. It's vacant so I go in, put the innocuous looking bottle of gas amongst the toiletries, wait a couple of minutes, hit the flush button, open the door and exit. Gabodian is standing waiting and looking annoyed.  He goes into the toilet and bangs the door shut. Now I can get a little sleep before we arrive.

I wake to the pilot's announcements about our landing coming up. We land and the pilot comes on again to tell us that one of the passengers has fallen ill and will need to be taken off first, and requests that we stay in our seats until asked to leave.  

 I take a taxi to the Berkeley. I can't calculate the number of times I've been in a cab doing this route from Heathrow, fast enough on the M4 but then slower and slower in the traffic of the suburbs. Along Cromwell Road, where I lost £3000 one evening in the club there, and into the traffic-stuffed roads around South Kensington. Finally, the Berkeley with its totally uninteresting building. I love this place. It's got no character like the older hotels in Europe, its dining room isn't a patch on the gilded one at the Ritz, the bar is a bore, the staff look as though they've got a bad smell under their noses, but it has the essential. It's discreet. They even have a back door for very important people who don't want to be seen. The underground garage has the biggest single display of choice expensive cars, I have ever seen. I parked mine there once. It looked like a poor country mouse.

I check in, am escorted to my suite, my clothing is arranged in the wardrobe for me while I call room service, and then the guy leaves with a big tip. Tonight I am going to a function at the famed Goldsmith's Hall in the City. Where John Spiegel is giving the keynote speech 'Wealth Generation in the 21st Century.'

Room service arrives, arranges my extensive brunch, and leaves with a big tip. I don't mind giving this guy a big tip because under the plate of egg, bacon, pancakes and Cumberland sausages is an envelope with my ID swinger for tonight. Room service can be very useful for off campus activities. The staff change frequently so they leave little actual footprint. In this case, my ID swinger was difficult to obtain to such a prestige event and took longer than expected. Hence Jaroslav bringing it in with my brunch. I eat and then sleep, before the next job.