Land of hope and rubbish

This is a message to all of my British friends, and other Britons that might happen to come across my little blog.
I love your country. I really do. I even love London. I love your architecture, your history, the buzzing street life, your shops, cheap alcohol. I adore Yorkshire, the Lake District, the Queen.
But it must be said, in fear of damaging our friendship, the first impressions of your country are never any good.
You walk out of the plane cabin at Gatwick, and an unmistaken stench of urine is the first to hit your senses. The taxi guy is OK, but the cab fare is increasingly more expensive than last time we were here. OK enough, they get you there.
Worse is the almost nonexistent hospitality at the overpriced hotel. Believe me, it looks much better on their site than in real life. The only comfort is that there must be thousands of these hotels in London. Small rooms, choking indoor climate (how can anyone with astma survive an hour at our hotel room?), worn carpets on every floor.
Of course, just when you're starting to hate your London stay, you find the best Indian cuisine just around the corner. At Mughal's in London street, you are not even close to getting the best meal in London. But it beats any Indian restaurant I've been to in Norway. Not much of a comparison, I know. But still.
Now we're off to the old and worn-out Royal Albert Hall, where we will listen to bandsmen playing in old and worn-out uniforms. But I guess, being in an old empire, old and worn-out adds to the charm of the country.
As soon as I begin to feel at ease with this fact, my love for the country comes back. As they say in Eastenders: Ta-ta!