A tipple at the Shangri-la

What do you do on a Friday after work when the sun is shining?  Meet at ex-colleague at the Shangri-la at the Shard and have a tipple or two.
Putting lippy on and wearing gold dangly earrings to try and look the part, I get there to be asked which bar I wanted. I didn’t know. Security guard “well, I suggest you find out”. 
Welcome to the Shangri-la!! 
On using their loo – I’d hoped for a luxurious 5 star boudoir as our toilets at work were blocked – I got directed to their cafe’s one and only toilet. Gutted.
However, it was very clean and slightly boudoir like, catering to mums and babes, disabled and the unworthy. The absolute bonus – a heated toilet seat!
When my friend arrived and we decided to go to the 52nd floor bar, I was again stropped at by the security guard saying “didn’t you hear me say you had to talk to the lady in red about tables in the bar”. No I didn’t, I was too busy trying not to pee my pants! 
On hearing that the minimum spend was £30 (a single drink costs £19.50) and you could only stay for 1.5 hours we decided to decline. Yes the views would be incredible but you wouldn’t be able to sit outside. Us Brits are so deprived of sunshine and warmth you’ve got to make the most of them.
We headed back to the cafe – LÁNG – situated in the foyer of the hotel. They’d sympathetically laid a fake grass lawn, TV for the Olympics and comfortable garden furniture to turn their outside sun trap next to the escalators leading to London Bridge station and the underground into an exclusive zone. It still doesn’t stop homeless people begging or detract from the noise of London but it is it’s very own little oasis. You’re tucked away enough to leave your worries behind.
With a relaxed table service (ie slow as the architects hadn’t put a door in between the cafe and the sun trap so the bar staff have to go in and out of the revolving doors of the hotel) our drinks were supped – G&Ts (minus the slimline as they’d run out) and Bacardi and lemonades – both Fever Tree mixers. 
It’s a great place for people watching. Was that a hooker in her skimpy nightie peeking through her pale blue overcoat? Was she high class? Look at her shoes not matching the coiffured hair.  And the dirty feet! Who was she waiting for? She ordered a glass of champs – could she afford it?  We’d never know as she took herself off somewhere, glass half finished. 
There were office workers catching up, looking their best except for the padding of one of their bras falling out; yummy mummies drinkin Pimms; young couples canoodling and ladies happy enough to feel the sun on their faces drinking champs on their own while they got much needed time alone.
£31.50 each not including tip for three doubles each and 2.5 hours later it was time to go home.
I’d go again but to the 52nd floor. After pay day of course. 


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