Sausage Tortillas and bomb damage.

It pours and pours with rain . En route to the rendezvous with men in dark suits the incongruous sight of  a stretched pink Chevy full of tipsy young ladies. The start of office party season.  From the shrieks of laughter emanating from inside we can assume someones having a good time.  

No cabs to be had. A long walk in leather  soled shoes to the dinner venue in a fancy hotel on Park Lane. Near Piccadilly a Polish-Mexican Bistro . What would you eat in a Polish - Mexican bistro ?  Sausage Tortillas ?

The men in dark suits arrive wearing  dinner jackets. This is either because they've been watching too much Downton Abbey  ( " Isn't this the way you always dine in England ? ") or more probably because anything requiring a dinner jacket is IRS deductible. The wives all in black dresses, single row of pearls. The chairmans wife has three rows of pearls. Corporate hierachy.

Half of the serious men wear ' plaid ' bow ties and cumberbuns in decidedly un-Scottish colours and tones . Kind of tartan on an acid trip. Angus has the troubling thought that they look like a rather dour mariachi band. This is presumably not the intention. 

The gents washroom decorated with framed photgraphs of the hotel during the blitz. Scenes of blown out windows and shrapnel damage with cheerful captions like " the bombs may be falling but nothing stops the chefs souffles from rising ". Two German gentlemen read  the captions in silence.