Morag Frew, our neighbour and the boss lady of the Boaters Bar at Thames & Kennet Marina, not only raved about the West End show, Kinky Boots, but had been to see it three times! So I went online to book a couple of Wednesday matinee tickets; it would be our last trip into London before heading to France next week.

I firmly believe in having a drink or two before just about any show, from the Rolling Stones to the Royal Philharmonic. Not only does it increase your enjoyment of a good performance, but it also works to minimise the pain of a mediocre one. (Not so sure if that holds for school nativity plays, but it’s something to be borne in mind.)

I’ve even been known (and surely judged) for bringing along my own stash of miniature Chivas, Gordons and Patron in cases where the supply forecast was uncertain. Distinctly alcoholic behaviour, no doubt – but oh, the serendipitous joy of unscrewing a little bottle or two of tequila just as the Eagles launched into “Tequila Sunrise” at Singapore National Stadium!

All this explains why we had to get to the West End a good hour before the 2.30pm start of Kinky Boots. Just around the corner from the Adelphi, we happily rediscovered The Big Easy – a large, busy restaurant and bar that we’d visited before with my (cocktail-swigging) sister, Dale, and her (tequila-lovin’) husband, Colin.

Kinky Boots Review:

No, we didn’t want a programme or a brochure; but yes, please, we would like to pre-book a glass of wine for interval. Our Row D seats were perfect, and the show was enormously enjoyable – bursting with talent, slick and polished, yet full of heart and feel-good moments. The photograph at the top of this page, lifted from the internet, is the one I was about to take myself before an eagle-eyed usher swooped in and ordered me to desist forthwith.

Langan’s Review:

After a quick detour to Nespresso in Regent Street to pick up new stocks of those essential little capsules, we headed for nearby Langan’s (Stratton Street, Mayfair) for an early dinner. Roy loves this venerable old establishment and its service, which seems to have just the right amount of suck for him.

Already awash in bonhomie, we polished off a bottle of Chablis in the lounge before moving across to our table, perfectly positioned for people-watching, in the rapidly filling restaurant. Langan’s serves staunch British fare (inexplicably listed in French, too, on the menu). For Roy, it was calve’s liver and onion tart followed by fishcakes; for me, spinach soufflé with anchovy sauce followed by braised beef; all washed down with yet another bottle of something red.

Conclusion

A London matinée, I’ve decided, is just the thing for a couple of pensioners like us. Dinner was done and dusted by 8.30pm, after which the short tube ride to Paddington, the 25-minute express train to Reading and a speedy taxi to the marina could have got us to bed by 10.30pm. Could have… if, that is, we hadn’t irresponsibly stayed up till the wee hours watching Orange is the New Black.

That could possibly explain why I’ve been feeling just a tiny bit jaded all day.

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