Liz Jones In which I m turfed out on to the street - YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones Liz Jones In which I m turfed out on to the street By Liz Jones - October 9, 2022 Readers often contact me, saying, ‘You live on a different planet.’ And, yes, it does sound glamorous, spending time in Marbella with the cast of TOWIE. Or travelling to Paris for the trial of John Galliano. Jetting off to the Oscars. The reality? I was asked to cover the 30-hour queue for the British public to pay their respects to the Queen, and file past her coffin. If you are important or part of the Royal press pack or an MP, you were whizzed inside. Not me. It was like a Victoria Beckham catwalk show all over again: get to the end of the Elizabeth line! So, with my sandwich, I joined the queue early that week. The Telegraph had wheeled out Esther Rantzen, who intimated old mourners would die. That there would be ‘suffering’. None of which was true. I was walking past the coffin after just six hours of jolly banter, despite us all being asked repeatedly by Samaritans volunteers in fluoro tabards how our mental health was bearing up. Get a grip! The zigzag into Westminster Hall was almost empty. So, come 8pm, I was in London, having been on my feet since 6am, with nowhere to stay. Tom Peake at Meiklejohn I had booked Soho House Kettner’s the next night, for a colleague’s leaving do, and had left my laptop and heavy case in storage. I walked back through Soho like an injured pigeon, feet hurting, tired, hungry. Nic, my assistant, had called earlier to beg for a room in the group, but no luck. She scoured every hotel website. Nothing. I collapsed at reception, told the young woman who knows me very well, as I stay almost once a week (I spent nearly £700 there recently to attend this newspaper’s 40th birthday party), that my story had been cut short, there was no 30-hour queue, and could I have a shower and sit in a corner to write my piece on my laptop until my room was ready the next morning. ‘Of course!’ she said. I had dinner, drinks. I sat. At midnight, lights were turned on. ‘You will have to move to reception.’ Which I did. I sat there. Come 1am, the young man on duty overnight came over to say. ‘You have to leave. No one is allowed overnight without a room.’ ‘But at 8pm the young lady said it was fine. I had dinner. I’m booked in tonight, already paid for. I had my wedding at Soho House’s Babington House in 2002. I stay here every week. I am loyal. You know me.’ ‘Maybe you misheard her as you are deaf,’ he said. Whhhaaaattttttt? He called the manager, returned and shook his head. ‘So,’ I said, water running down my face. ‘You are turning a client of 20 years’ standing out into the night with nowhere to go. Everywhere is full because of the Queen’s funeral.’ ‘There is nothing I can do.’ ‘I’m never staying here again,’ I said. ‘Your room tomorrow… oh, tonight, sorry, is non-refundable.’* The nice man who hails taxis came over, said he was trying to find me somewhere. Another male member of staff said they had found a room in Fleet Street. At nearly 2am, they put me in an Uber. The driver couldn’t find Fleet Street, let alone the hotel, and dumped me in the road. I finally found the Z Hotel. It was locked. I rang the bell, sobbing. Eventually, a young man unlocked it. He took about half an hour to check me in – I told him I could write a novel in the time it was taking – and take payment, and I descended to my room. It didn’t have a window. No cotton wool. A bar of soap the size of a stamp. Why are poor people deemed unworthy of shampoo? It was 3am. I’d been haemorrhaging money all day. I was unable to remove my mascara. The next morning, I had to go down for breakfast, as there was no room service. I returned well before 11 to shower and pack. They had locked me out. So please, never tell me my job is glamorous. That I get special treatment. That life is a round of parties and photo shoots. Never mind Charles. I filed copy on the afternoon my mum died. *After a flurry of emails Soho House reimbursed me. Jones Moans… What Liz Loathes This Week I’ve just been mansplained. The electrician told me that if my back door is open, it will cost me more to heat the cottage. And that the little flame in the control panel means the heating is working Smug couples who swap multimillion-pound mansions for a tumbledown farmstead, then say, ‘I realised so much of the leadwork quote was labour, so I’m learning to weld’ Hotels Read more from Liz Jones here RELATED ARTICLESMORE FROM AUTHOR Liz Jones In which I m torn between two men Liz Jones In which I have a birthday date Liz Jones In which I look back on my life in fashion DON' T MISS Fiona Bruce Sometimes I struggle not to cry November 14, 2021 17 beautiful 2021 diaries to help you to look forward to December 4, 2020 Why women leave men for women What’ s fuelling the rise of April 28, 2019 Hollywood veteran Laura Linney on plastic surgery friendship and her stellar July 3, 2017 You can shop the khaki jumpsuit from Holly Willoughby’ s new M& S July 17, 2019 The secrets and lies behind this happy family photo April 11, 2021 It’ s cocktail hour Olly Smith’ s cocktail recipes and Eleanor Maidment s canapé November 14, 2021 BBC One has revealed its Christmas TV schedule and there’ s lots December 2, 2020 YOU Beauty Box August Reviews August 1, 2017 Rome has been named the cheapest major city to visit in August 7, 2019 Popular CategoriesFood2704Life2496Fashion2240Beauty1738Celebrity1261Interiors684 Sign up for YOUMail Thanks for subscribing Please check your email to confirm (If you don't see the email, check the spam box) Fashion Beauty Celebrity Life Food Privacy & Cookies T&C Copyright 2022 - YOU Magazine. 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