I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar

I love to travel. Visiting new countries for a stolen retreat is my favourite pastime. But here I was. In a basement reserved for ‘members only’, tucked away in the depths of London’s Covent Garden.

Working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.

I was mastering the art of making the perfect cocktail. Shaken, but not stirred. Poured over ice. Mixed with a vigour suitable for only the foamiest martinis. Remembering that the gin is measured in elephants. Five elephants to be precise. A blast of fresh peach juice and garnished with a sour lemon slice. I had made four cocktails worthy of sale in this London bar.

Drinking enthusiastically whilst a Brown-Eyed Girl kept us in friendly company, I sat cross-legged on the bar stool, star-framed glasses balanced on my nose and a smile on my face. My smile grew with every tangy sip of alcohol. Faces reflected the light as the real barman threw the vault into varying levels of light with a swing of the dangling light bulbs that hung above the bar.

Birthday celebrations all round as the local drinkers clutched my hand, kissed my cheek and drank a Cosmopolitan perfectly reflective of their busy London lifestyles. I was enjoying every minute of this holiday just two hours from home. I had become proficient at perfecting a Mojito and basked in London’s secret caverns.

A European capital renowned for its hypnotic city breaks; like exploring Venetian backstreets or admiring the Parisian way of life. Unlike these continental cities, however, London has a sincere Britishness that is reminiscent of its bustling and addictive nature. The cocktail bar mirrored the bustle, loud and infectious. A weekend in London truly reminded me that home really is where the heart is.