Don't mention the M-word

Katie Jarvis reviews Durrants Hotel in London (and thinks you’ll like it), but doesn’t mention the marathon. Not once

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I’m not going to write about the London Marathon! Der!” I massively scoff in reply to Ian, who is un-versed in the higher aspects of journalism. (He thinks knowing what ‘DPS’ stands for qualifies him for full NUJ membership.)

“By the time this article comes out, the 2019 marathon will be LONG over. Old news! History! Passé. I’m not even going to mention it!” I say.

We’re in London to support Greg, Ellie’s fiancé, who is running… you know… 26 miles, 385 yards in aid of VICTA, a charity for blind and partially sighted children. I am deeply impressed and considerably poorer as a result of Greg’s participation in the… you know… event-thing originating from a battle 490BC (Newtonian calendar) - in which the Athenians and their allies defeated the Persians.

We’re staying in Durrants Hotel, Marylebone, which is not only gloriously comfortable but amazingly situated. We’re a couple of minutes’ walk from Selfridges, a store where the poshly outfitted doormen have friendly name badges. I get to recognise ‘Nick’ quite easily over the course of a weekend, though he seems curiously oblivious as to who I am. Ellie and Greg, on the other hand, are staying in a very cheap hotel on the outer edges of civilisation. I feel guilt-ridden. This is SO wrong, considering Greg is the one putting all the work in.

“You could always swap,” Greg suggests.

I like the look of Durrants – imposing, yet somehow friendly, with its Georgian charm and waving union flag. There’s something delightfully old-world about it: one of the proud last of its kind - a rare privately owned hotel in the great British capital.

Daniel Harper, long-time manager, greets us warmly at reception.

“We’re here to watch Greg… you know…