I have a friend whom I haven’t seen since before I got married, and whom I still owe a visit. She lives in England, and we used to plan elaborate vacations where I’d stay in one of the best London Hotels and we’d go clubbing and see theatre, because really, what is a trip to London without taking in a show? It just as wrong as visiting New York without spending a couple of hours in a darkened theatre on Broadway.

We recently reconnected through IM and FaceBook, so in case you were wondering if the latter is of any use, it is.

She heard her accent on my answering machine once, and thought she sounded common. I think she’s rather uncommon – baudy, funny, talented – she always made me laugh, and pushed me outside myself.

Writing about her accent reminds me of the time I had to chase down mortgage clients by calling a bunch of Glasgow Hotels, when there was a problem with their loan closing. I finally bribed a concierge by promising to FedEx money for him to take his partner out of a night of pub hopping. Yes, I really sent it, and yes, it was a business expense. And yes, after said concierge tracked down the borrowers in a toney restaurant, the loan did close.

While we’re on the subject of hotels, let’s add Edinburgh Hotels to the mix. I found a mystery novel set in one, picked it up, then put it down without buying it, and now cannot remember what it was, though the description of the story is sort of haunting me.

I like expensive hotels. I like them so much, in fact, that the narrator in my first NANO Novel, Illusions of Motion was named Zoe, after a character in a movie who lived in a hotel and had a famous musician for a father.