Author's Notes

It’s not easy to decide where to go first in this high society adventure park, disguised as a hotel.
It’s afternoon, so let’s have tea. In the Thames Foyer, trays laden with finger sandwiches and scones are carried in; tea is poured into delicate china cups. Tourists gaze out over their cups, watching neighbouring tables, looking out for a glimpse of glamour, a slice of fascination. A class of schoolchildren has discreetly appeared. It is their first visit to London. Tea at The Savoy – this British national ritual and part of their heritage – is the high point of their trip.
At the next table, two generations of Savoy regulars exchange experiences: ‘Beneath here was a courtyard,’ a lady explains to a charming girl. She indicates this very hall; ‘my grandfather used to come to The Savoy for luncheons. He met Sir Arthur here, one day.’
‘King Arthur, Grandmother?’ the little girl asks excitedly.
Grandma throws a merciful look at her before she gracefully explains: ‘Sir Arthur Sullivan, my dear. The composer.’
‘Oh.’
Sullivan. This touches a chord. Gilbert and Sullivan. Oscar Wilde. Melba. César Ritz and Escoffier. The mind wanders back to the days of horse-drawn carriages, to a time when this hotel was first opened. Please follow me.