The Service Log: what the desk has learned, written down
Every good reception keeps a log. Ours records the things guests ask about most often and the answers that turned out to be right: which streets are quiet at seven, which hotels sit on which side of a boundary road, how long a walk really takes after dark, and what happens, in order, between a first message and a knock at the door. The Service Log is that record, tidied up and written down so that you can read it before you write rather than after.
Some entries are about places. A square in W8 that most visitors to Kensington never find, a street in Chelsea made for an early table, the first drink of a Shoreditch night, a City hotel whose lobby sits beneath a banking hall's dome. They are written for someone who is actually in that part of London, or about to be, and they name only what the desk is confident is still there. Where a restaurant or a bar might not last, the entry says so, and the desk names the current room when you write.
Other entries are about the desk itself: why every booking is confirmed in writing, how long an offered name is held before it is released, and how to describe an evening when you have no companion in mind. They explain the procedure the way a good reception would, plainly and in the order it happens, including the parts where the answer is no.
Nothing in the log replaces a message. Each entry links onward to the district it describes, to the kind of evening it suits and to the companions in the register who know that ground best. When you have read enough, write to the desk with the day, the start time, how long and where, and Cordelia answers in writing. The fees are one published ladder everywhere, from £250 for an hour, listed in full on the rates page, and the fee goes to the companion herself, in person, on arrival. New entries are added to the log as they are written, in the same voice and to the same standard.
10 guides in Service Log










One line is enough
Write the district, the hour and the number of hours. What comes back has a name in it, a time in it and a figure in it, and nothing moves after that.