The Ritz of London, that bastion of ritziness, was a beacon in my desire to experience that pinnacle of Britishness, the great traditional afternoon tea.
Booking from New Zealand was easily accomplished, as ritziness involves wonderful service and seamless online reservations.
Oh, the anticipation.
A flight via Thailand, the Chelsea Flower Show, a two-week tour of Britain's best gardens, the Eurostar, 11 days in Paris, all to be endured before the piece de resistance - Tea at the Ritz.
What to wear? How to get my four-year-old daughter to behave perfectly? And the fear of being exposed for our rampant colonialistic behaviour.
Last time I visited London I walked past the building, too conscious of my distinct ritziless to venture inside.
But this time would be different. We had a reservation. We were guests.
Dressed in our finest crinkle-free clothes especially brought for the occasion we set off in keen anticipation.
A discreet distance away, a wee fumble in our capacious handbags and a bit of hopping about ensured our shoes were successfully changed from clod-hopping, tube-catching, pavement-pounding wear to something more elegant and suitable for the occasion.
A deep breath, a final suitable mysterious foreign-guest aura spritz and we entered the magic of the Ritz.
Of course there was a top-hatted gentleman with a smile and a friendly greeting who welcomed us in.
And a very distinguished gentleman who directed us to the gracious cloakroom lady where we deposited our extraneous matter.
And then into the sumptuous Palm Court we glided.
It is gorgeous.
Warm blush walls, gilt, flowers, greenery, mirrors, banquettes, discreet tables, grotto, naked nymph, white-coated waiters, Ritz monogrammed napkins, silver teapots, three-tiered afternoon tea plates, fluffy scones, ambrosial clotted cream, delicate cakes, exquisite sandwiches, silver sugar tongs, superb smiling service, finest blended tea, fabulously hatted Royal Ascot-bound hotel guests glamorously flitting past, our own special waiter who obliged my delighted daughter's request for more chocolate cake twice - "anything for you darling" - and then presented her with a personalised signed postcard of the Ritz as a souvenir.
The only thing missing from this whole amazing experience?
A photograph. Photography is not permitted in the Palm Court at the Ritz.
As everyone would agree it would lower the tone of this toniest of establishments.
So I'm afraid, being hardy colonials, I passed my mother my camera, carefully shielded by my napkin and sent her off to take a picture of my daughter in the Ritz loos.
Aren't they pink and fabulous? Just like we were when we left!
