"Taxi!"

Et alors, mes amis, at a point in her life when Fhina Fee found herself reclining in the jacuzzi hot-tub at the Crowne Plaza in Liverpool, gazing forlornly at the fifteen-foot high, iconic green Liver Birds atop the Liver Insurance Building in Liverpool, she thought fondly of her fiends and friends in Bloggy Blogdom, and she smiled to herself... A smug smile, perhaps, but a sweet one nonetheless...



The setting sun shone on the Merseysippi, and the windows of the becalmed swimming pool reflected the lights rippling on the surface, as Fhina glided through the waters like a graceful and sleek, brown otter. ...One that was fond of ice cream, admittedly...

Easing her aching and train-wrecked bones in the warm scented vapours of the steam-room, Fhina Fee felt the cares and pressures of the day slip from her body.

My Goddess, if the towel fits, thought Fhina Fee, then she shall wear it. And she wrapped her body in a white Egyptian sheet, and thought of the town, nay, the city she was in. European Capital of Culture 2008, no less...



(Pic: The Sage, Gateshead)

We wuz robbed, cried Newcastle-Gateshead at the time, Fhina Fee's home territory, bien sur, but the votes, and Ringo, went home to Liverpool all the same...



That last pic was Glasgow, (European Capital of Culture 1990 TM), by the way!

The last memories Fhina has of Liverpool are of staying in virtually the only hotel in town, almost ten years before... The Adelphi.

Famed for having been roundly mocked in an early reality TV series and resembling in no small way the crumbling ruins of Miss Havisham's wedding breakfast.

That was the Adelphi Hotel...



When she went out for dinner with colleagues at that time, she found the pubs filled with people who stared noisily at strangers, and who were wary and challenging of those not from 'round here', and pubs were filled with ancient liggers wearing badly-sewn Beatles' suits, circa 1963.

The year Fhina Fee was brought into the world, en effet...

This was the first time in her life, in any city of the world she had been to, that she felt a little unsafe... The city of the Mersey had a blackened, torn, Jack Daniels' label feel to it. Still waters running deep indeed.

She was not looking forward to returning once again, but Fhina never judges on first impressions. Non!

Vast sums of money have been poured into the banks of the Mersey, and onto the backs of the people.

Things must have changed.

"Newcastle-Gateshead has changed so much in ten years, after all...", said Fhina Fee.



So when the jovial, jocular, hail-fellow-well-met, taxi-driver who drove her from Liverpool Lime Street Station to the Crowne Plaza, chatted about the sights with her on the journey, suggesting walks and the views around the Albert Dock, la Fhina felt warmed, cheered, open to the pleasures and opportunities for leisure offered by a new city, although she was here for a pretty extensive working and training engagement.

Fhina handed the driver his fare, and a reasonable tip - Her usual, and asked for a receipt.

Her bags were handed out to her open arms, and a smiling, ruddy-faced, elderly concierge, besuited, booted and behatted in grey serge, took her bagages and her nom-de-plume, which he proceeded to give to the broad-beaming American receptionist, Gemma.

And when the smiling taxi driver handed over Fhina's change, and her receipt, she placed them carefully in her purse... Pointing out politely that, perhaps the nice taxi driver had overlooked that she had in fact pressed a Twenty Pound Note into his paw, and that he'd only actually given her change for a Ten Pound Note...

The cabbie, hastened, chastened and apologetic, duly obliged with Fhina Fee's correct change, and his sorry-mumblings, and she teetered, like one long-dead, into the bosom and the bright-lights of Liverpool's Crowne Plaza...

She'd save the 'Ferry 'Cross the Mersey' until later, thanks!

Who'd pay the Ferryman?!