Shoreditch House

At Shoreditch House you’re drop-pinned into London’s epicentre of cool, a definition that stretches widely from East End to high-end. It is, for want of a better word, hip round here. Of course the hotel is in a converted tea warehouse. Of course.

I’ve only ever known Shoreditch House as a place to meet someone more stylish than me; someone with a membership. The House itself is a multi-floor, members-only haven, with two restaurants, a rooftop pool, and workspace/library frequented by creatives and their guests. Hot-desking tables by day become ping-pong tables at night. I do wonder what all this bustle will do to a good night’s sleep, but I find the hotel is a separate wing, accessed via its own lift from the entrance lobby. Rooms only share hallways with other rooms, avoiding any disturbance from the movements of the late-night Hackney Coachella crowd that spills excitedly into the lobby for post-work sundowners.

I check in with the friendly hotel concierge who, with the kind of easy charm you feel with an old friend, compliments me on looking so refreshed for having come off 28 hours of flying. I’m warming to the place already. Room categories cleverly set one’s expectations: Tiny, Small, and Small Plus. But even having sprung for the Small Plus I’m surprised how spacious it is. Sure, there might not be room to swing a cat here, but there’s enough room to kick back and have a drink with one.

It’s light and airy, with a shuttered sliding-door that opens to a little terrace: a great place to people-watch commuters pouring out of Shoreditch High Street station (and feel a bit smug – ‘I used to be like you’) or to enjoy a bird’s-eye perspective of the neighbourhood’s vivid street-art murals. Unassuming double doors reveal a generous, tiled bathroom, stocked even more generously with a collection of Soho Skin products, everything from cleanser and serum to eye cream and lip balm. That’s not even the extent of the toiletries – there’s a whole array of full-sized Cowshed shower products (from the onsite spa) to choose from.

Frankly, the degree of thought that has gone into things makes me swoon. Hair dryer and hair straightener. Robes and flip flops. Ear plugs and toothbrush… I could have rolled up with merely a change of clothes. The mini bar is well set up for cocktails, while a cupboard in the bureau (honestly, how have they fit so much stuff in here?) rolls out a full coffee machine and china tea set. There are both dairy and oat milks in the fridge, and a canister of complimentary cookies, restocked daily.

One should save the appetite for dinner though. I’ve opted for Pen Yen, the izakaya-style restaurant on the rooftop, a space draped in plants and bathed in ambient lighting. For once I’m the House member bringing a guest, and my friend and I tuck in to black cod gyoza, smoky, wood-fired broccoli, and prawn tempura with eat-with-a-spoon wasabi mayo. From the table we people-watch the evening crowd hustling to the bar, or cozying up on striped poolside loungers in their winter coats. As we finish with a nightcap old-fashioned it’s clear people are still just getting their night started. I expect the hubbub to keep me awake, but the separated hotel wing works a treat.

It’s jetlag that wakes me up early, peach sunlight turning the streets, with their rubbish trolleys, aglow outside. And in an attempt to get my body on London time I head to the gym, another separate wing of the House. I snag myself a Peloton before any of the stylishly clad, pre-work members do. And then to breakfast.

House policies forbid phones, and it makes for a refreshing atmosphere; everyone is either in quiet conversation or lost in morning newspapers. Someone in a corner booth is discussing a TV script. Gentle light falls in the windows and spotlights the low-key eclectic art on the restaurant’s gallery wall. I could get used to this. But then the moment comes. Check-out is – very generously – not until midday but somehow this still comes around too quickly and I struggle to peel myself away. This House has come to feel rather too comfortably like home, and the idea of returning not only to the cacophonous hurry of the outside world but to my former, uncool self, is a harsh consideration.

‘Would you like to leave your luggage with us?’ asks the concierge. Actually, I’d like to leave myself here, thanks. And can you send up some more of those cookies, please, because I uncoolly ate the lot.