Week in, week out, I hear people panicking about the influx of an alien tribe. For these unhappy souls, I have advice: first, embrace the largely harmless hipster. Get over your fear of being robbed blind for a macchiato or fleeced for a designer hotdog. Alternatively, move to Cheltenham, a beautiful town that appears untroubled by brandishers of enormobeards, lumberjack shirts, short fringes and ironic spectacles.
Or so I thought. Browsing the hotel porn that is the Mr & Mrs Smith website (well, we all have to have a hobby), I find a gorgeous Georgian building in the elegant spa town described as a "restaurant with rooms". Beyond an immaculately pruned facade, many of the h*****r signifiers are there: a cheese and charcuterie room equipped with vintage wooden ice-box fittings; neon artworks (one, a crucifix announcing "Sin will find you out" just like New York's famous 8th Avenue church I want quite badly); a cocktail bar called Crazy Eights. Actually, that sounds more Vegas hen party than Peckham rooftop, but you get the general idea.
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