Dressed to impress...



Now for starters I'd like to qualify my actions, as I am not one for going to the Sheraton's Nutz bar, which is so crazy they need to replace that pedestrian penultimate 'S' and add a more flagrant 'Z' at the end with the panache of that swashbuckling vigilante Zorro - ole! – as if the Z itself was proof that fun was a guarantee within but, you see, I was merely picking up a friend on my way past, honest. So I didn't even want to go in but regardless the security team dressed to the nines with caps, radios, orange batons and badges, stood on a raised step by the door - "My how tall you are this evening gentlemen!" - and said you can't come in wearing shorts. After the incident at the Metropole you'd have to wonder is this the start of a disturbing trend, indeed the beginning of the end. Years from now social historians will look back at the early 21st century and perhaps one will even sift through the blogs of yesteryear and happen upon these sorry moments in the life of the Pittstop Works lone staffer and pinpoint 2007 as the moment where people started getting notions of upperosity in our dear auld Hanoi.

Of course, I pointed out that I didn't intend to start playing tennis inside and several women coming out were plainly parading their legs more so than I, but alas all was lost on the SWAT-team ensemble and I'll be the first to admit my pasty pins ain't so pleasing to the eye.

Anyway, my friend emerged from the guarded-garden and we headed on. Appropriately or inappropriately enough, he told me that it was for the best as inside the bar was a load of pants.

Or perhaps that should be pantz?

Ole!