Nomads land

home-comforts2

We’ve been homeless for the last few weeks. That’s a dramatic over-exaggeration for comedic/ attention-seeking effect. The fact is we have a home, it’s just not functioning as a home and is in a stabby part of East London (someone ordered a flat white the other day, so everything is OK).

But while our recently-purchased gaf is being rubbish, we’ve been hopping from pillar to post, staying with everyone from my wonderful mate’s Mum in Fulham to the Bermondsey Square Hotel – a homely sanctuary that has banished all our building site woes.

And it’s been great. Stressful, yes. But great all the same. It’s like we’re this little clan of dung beetles, pushing our only wares around London in an Eastpak rucsac. The key to successful nomadic family life is in the packing.

The night we arrived at the Bermondsey, I didn’t sully those Egyptian cotton sheets with the usual weight of my ineffectual packing. No toothbrush (the genned-up housekeeping were straight on that), all I needed was a change of clothes and a pair of knickers (M&S, high-waisted, practical). The urchin? Nappies and wet wipes (which have – and always will – double-up as make-up wipes). It made me question what’s lurking in all the unpacked life boxes.

Perhaps the winning factor at the Bermondsey is the terrace rooms – each one has its own outdoor run-about for hyperactive toddlers. It’s like an urchin pen for when the main room gets a little claustrophobic for the full team – just fling open the doors and release the kid. You can recline on the bed and watch your life project frolicking about as you tuck into a room service aubergine burger with courgette fries.

There is also a lot to be said for a place that lets you spread your own toast with peanut butter from a jar at breakfast. The whole pomp and ceremony of posh hotels can be off-putting and when you’re seeking a home-from-home, this hotel gets it.

Silver platters of limp croissants are exchanged for wooden benches rammed with every breakfast accoutrement you could imagine. It’s like stepping into the ultimate home – complete with Smeg fridge chilling some of the freshest juices in any hotel. Oh and it’s not eye-wateringly expensive. Rooms start at £83 – a great excuse to tap up granny and nip off with your life lobster for the night.

As the urchin was packed off to sleep after a gander in our private terrace overlooking London, we bedded down for the latest episode of The Walking Dead. Despite our stuff scattered across the city and a low-level concern that I might not have enough knickers to get me through the week, I slept better than I have in weeks. This is a place that totally redefines home comforts.

Note: This is not an ad. We well like this place and paid for it and stuff.

 

Anna Whitehouse

Founder of Mother Pukka, Anna Whitehouse likes super hero cape-making classes and dislikes the naming of celebrity couples (TomKat, Brange etc.) She tries (and often fails) to parent the shit out of life.

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Turns out I’m not an afternoon person either.

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