Some people look elegant when they jog, alive and full of grace. I, on the other hand, look like a malcoordinated hobo, running away from a wild pack of dogs, albeit in slow motion.
Yes, even jogging at a leisurely pace leaves me looking flustered and slightly crazed, an image only confounded by a bright orange backpack, purple top and jazzed up green trainers – the more colour coordinated elements of my wardrobe have long since gone missing.
Now, while rather amusing, this is not exactly the kind of visitor you would like to welcome into your high-end Knightsbridge hotel a stone’s throw from Harrods. I know this because I accidentally walked into two neighbouring hotel before finding The Levin and was on the verge of being shooooed off like a rabid fox.
But the third times a charm, and upon entering The Levin, it was all smiles - from the staff, not the guests mind you, they were still pretty terrified.
Despite my appearance, I was checked in quickly, my reservation taking only seconds to find. No queue to hear of and no battling obnoxious tourists in the lobby. A key was placed straight into my hand (the logic of whether it should have been is not up for discussion here), the elevator called, and me and my 1990s rave ensemble politely ushered up to the fourth floor. Pretty good start, but things soon got much better.
For a croaky old town house that has worked hard to retain many original features including the lift, panelling and staircase, the rooms are surprisingly spacious. There is a fireplace, large beds, and a sprawling suite area. The bathrooms are huge, the toiletries all designer, and the bathtub readymade for two – although sadly there would be no hanky panky on this hotel adventure, just a really relaxing post-run soak.
Despite trying to lure in both the leisure and the corporate crowd, The Levin is definitely more “boutique” than “business” and upon getting out of the bath, I’m so at ease that I immediately head for the mini bar doors. Work tomorrow, what work?
Thankfully though, I’m relaxed, not lobotomised, and notice just in time that the half bottle of King Grande Cuvvee is a whopping £155. This is more than half a night’s stay, so unless you’re really trying to impress your potential bath buddy, stay well clear.
Luckily for me, my partner in crime needs no such romancing and as The Dirty Blonde knocks on the door, she’s already impressed. It’s a Tuesday, we are in Knightsbridge and the world - outside of the mini-fridge of delights - is our oyster.
Raring to go, we descend the long, winding staircase leading to the hotel’s restaurant bar below. It’s busy, warm and friendly. People are milling in and out and since the hotel has only 12 rooms, we take that as a sign that locals like The Levin too.
The food is glorified pub food, but there is nothing wrong with that and the cocktail sausages and breaded calamari hit the spot, more for me though than The Dirty Blonde, I devour most of hers. I’m eating, she’s drinking, but it’s working. They do say that the best relationships are based on compromise so…
Then it’s onto the mains. The Fish and Chips are crispy and made just how I like them – skinny. No, the sense of irony is not lost on me but thin chips are a personal passion, even if more traditional Brits disagree.
Again, I have both mine and the blonde’s. But it’s ok, there is a reason I ran here after all.
Then the best part of the stay lands on our table. If editorial standards allowed it I would write this part in cap locks, but this will have to suffice. Big bowls of perfectly made mushy peas, the size of two man-sized handfuls, are brought out. None of the standard pub-token-mini-dollop of pea, a proper pea mountain fest that really spices up an otherwise staple dish, I have started calling that “having a little bit of Knightsbridge.” But at just £13 for a main and £3.50 for the pea extravaganza, there’s nothing boutique here – this, my friend, is just pure business.
Now, depending on the kind of business you’re looking for, Levin’s location means that you can end dinner by going straight to bed and snuggling up warm, or heading to various neighbouring bars to mingle with other high flying corporates who are so swish they consider this their locals. Needless to say we did the latter.
While this is usually a terrible idea, it is decidedly a grand plan when you’re indulging away at a hotel. With complimentary breakfast coming to your door in the morning and your office likely much closer, there is time to fit it all in. Booze, breakfast and a bleary eyed walk into work.
The whole experience would really have been without reproach, were it not for a parting exchange with the management. “Oh, you, you’re the blogger. Or do you just Tweet?!” they quip as I hand my keys back. “No I’m a journalist for LondonlovesBusiness.com – we’re a great website. Have you not heard of us?”
“No.”
And with that the illusion is shattered and back to feeling like a malcoordinated orange-rucksack wearing “blogger” I go.