The Lloyd's Building Cafeteria
Thrusting bizarrely from the corner of Lime Street and Leadenhall Street is one of the most love-it-or-hate-it pieces of architecure in London. The Lloyds Building, built to house Lloyds Underwriters in the 1980s is a gleaming Gigeresque piece of work, resembling a segment of a giant Terminator-style robot snake, dropped by passing aliens. No, really. That's exactly what it looks like. So little wonder, then, that your intrepid review team (in the form of me, offensive_mango and cornfedpig), decided it was a must-have for the_square_mile. Ok, ok. It was all cornfedpig's idea.
The Underwriters have come up in the world. Back in the late 1600s they were originally housed in Edward Lloyd's coffee house where they underwrote the risk of buns going stale, or possibly the jam not turning up in time for afternoon scones, before moving on to the fabulous Royal Exchange in Cornhill in the late 1700s, (it burnt down, but was rebuilt, again fabulously); thence to Leadenhall Street, then Lime Street, and finally they sorted themselves out and had a place built.
Now, obviously they don't just let any fool wander in there - security's tight. Given the high fool-rating each of us presents to the world (and cube it, when we're together), I can hardly blame you if you harbour the suspicion that we were less likely to get in than most.
Thank heaven, then, for friends in low places - this time in the form of cornfedpig, who rolled offensive_mango and me into a tool-bag and used his credentials as a photocopy repair-man to sneak us into the building. Once inside, he let us out, and proceeded to show us the floors where people scurry about with armloads of risks, trying to persuade the corpulent and slightly smug-looking underwriters to cover their arses. I mean the arses of the risk-bearers. The underwriters don't bear arses, they bear risks. Oh dear, this has become very complicated. I shall move on.
Cries of "dance for me, little puppy!" rang out, as the Underwriters took full advantage of their positions of power.
In the centre of the room where all the scurrying happens is the Lutine Bell, which rings whenever a ship sinks. Beside it, on large lecterns, are the books detailing the losses (ie: ships sunk). They're absolutely vast and are maintained in a flawless caligraphic hand. Today's book stands open beside the book from 100 years ago. We were hungry and may have drooled on them a little.
After scampering about the place for some time we followed cornfedpig to the cafeteria, which regaled us with its many delights: pasta; roast beast; salads and drinks and CAKE - all manner of things were available and to obtain them one need only run the gauntlet of slightly vile tempered Underwriters, who are used to being treated like god and don't hold kindly with the notion of someone in a skirt being ahead of them in the queue, much less so if she's
dawdling with the gravy. Of the choices available, Sausage and mash won out for all three of us (are we sensing a theme to these reviews?); and we repaired to a table, whereupon I noted that everyone around us was very serious and all of them were doubtless talking about work; and furthermore it was entirely likely that nobody had ever laughed in this cafeteria.
We proceeded to have one of those lunchtime conversations which results in each of you slumping, red faced, teary of eye and snotty of nose, into your mashed potato, undone by silent mirth. (Why is silent mirth so much more painful than the normal variety? And so much funnier). It was contagious and after a while I could see that one or two tables around us - doubtless also hosting photocopy repairmen - had started having fun too. Marvellous. They're probably still trying to get the last vestiges of joy out of the carpet even now.
[1]After lunch we did the only sensible thing and played for some time in the glass lifts, which soar gut-stoppingly up - or indeed down - the outside of the building and onto the heads of those walking in the street below. Well, it looks that way until you get to ground level and discover that you have miraculously missed all of them by scant inches.
Then we felt sick and went home.
If you have a yen to see the inside of the Lloyd's Building without tucking yourself into one of cornfedpig's roomy toolbags (although I can't recommend the experience of the toolbag highly enough); you can actually book a tour here. Although I doubt very much that they will let you titter in the canteen.
[1] The pic is St. cornfedpig and offensive_mango playing with my knitted telephone sock outside the lift doors. I am pretty sure nobody has ever salaciously fingered a telephone sock at that altitude before. It should be noted that any right-thinking adult would have been too busy appreciating the amazing view to have bothered with a phone-sock. But ... well, I think this photograph allows you, the reader, a valuable insight into the frightening carnival that IS the_square_mile.
The Underwriters have come up in the world. Back in the late 1600s they were originally housed in Edward Lloyd's coffee house where they underwrote the risk of buns going stale, or possibly the jam not turning up in time for afternoon scones, before moving on to the fabulous Royal Exchange in Cornhill in the late 1700s, (it burnt down, but was rebuilt, again fabulously); thence to Leadenhall Street, then Lime Street, and finally they sorted themselves out and had a place built.
Now, obviously they don't just let any fool wander in there - security's tight. Given the high fool-rating each of us presents to the world (and cube it, when we're together), I can hardly blame you if you harbour the suspicion that we were less likely to get in than most.
Thank heaven, then, for friends in low places - this time in the form of cornfedpig, who rolled offensive_mango and me into a tool-bag and used his credentials as a photocopy repair-man to sneak us into the building. Once inside, he let us out, and proceeded to show us the floors where people scurry about with armloads of risks, trying to persuade the corpulent and slightly smug-looking underwriters to cover their arses. I mean the arses of the risk-bearers. The underwriters don't bear arses, they bear risks. Oh dear, this has become very complicated. I shall move on.
Cries of "dance for me, little puppy!" rang out, as the Underwriters took full advantage of their positions of power.
In the centre of the room where all the scurrying happens is the Lutine Bell, which rings whenever a ship sinks. Beside it, on large lecterns, are the books detailing the losses (ie: ships sunk). They're absolutely vast and are maintained in a flawless caligraphic hand. Today's book stands open beside the book from 100 years ago. We were hungry and may have drooled on them a little.
After scampering about the place for some time we followed cornfedpig to the cafeteria, which regaled us with its many delights: pasta; roast beast; salads and drinks and CAKE - all manner of things were available and to obtain them one need only run the gauntlet of slightly vile tempered Underwriters, who are used to being treated like god and don't hold kindly with the notion of someone in a skirt being ahead of them in the queue, much less so if she's
dawdling with the gravy. Of the choices available, Sausage and mash won out for all three of us (are we sensing a theme to these reviews?); and we repaired to a table, whereupon I noted that everyone around us was very serious and all of them were doubtless talking about work; and furthermore it was entirely likely that nobody had ever laughed in this cafeteria.
We proceeded to have one of those lunchtime conversations which results in each of you slumping, red faced, teary of eye and snotty of nose, into your mashed potato, undone by silent mirth. (Why is silent mirth so much more painful than the normal variety? And so much funnier). It was contagious and after a while I could see that one or two tables around us - doubtless also hosting photocopy repairmen - had started having fun too. Marvellous. They're probably still trying to get the last vestiges of joy out of the carpet even now.
[1]After lunch we did the only sensible thing and played for some time in the glass lifts, which soar gut-stoppingly up - or indeed down - the outside of the building and onto the heads of those walking in the street below. Well, it looks that way until you get to ground level and discover that you have miraculously missed all of them by scant inches.
Then we felt sick and went home.
If you have a yen to see the inside of the Lloyd's Building without tucking yourself into one of cornfedpig's roomy toolbags (although I can't recommend the experience of the toolbag highly enough); you can actually book a tour here. Although I doubt very much that they will let you titter in the canteen.
[1] The pic is St. cornfedpig and offensive_mango playing with my knitted telephone sock outside the lift doors. I am pretty sure nobody has ever salaciously fingered a telephone sock at that altitude before. It should be noted that any right-thinking adult would have been too busy appreciating the amazing view to have bothered with a phone-sock. But ... well, I think this photograph allows you, the reader, a valuable insight into the frightening carnival that IS the_square_mile.