Vaulting ambition

To the Ned, as diarists say when they can’t provide a rational reason for their voyage: the colossal banking hall transformed into ten restaurants, or one super-restaurant with ten menus, by the owners of Soho House, who are sucking up all the press coverage the age of churnalism can grant. I cannot yet decide what is more chilling: a Soho House open to all or a Soho House safely hidden behind its semi–weaponised membership criteria. I began to loathe the brand when I saw the table-tennis tables and selfie booths at Shoreditch House. I wouldn’t care if the media class played table tennis and took selfies until their hands and faces fell off if they had predicted Brexit or Donald Trump’s election victory, but they didn’t because they were playing table tennis and taking selfies, and that is disgusting.

The edifice first: a pale, cold block with angry ornamentation by Edward ‘Ned’ Lutyens on Poultry, a street near the Bank of England named for chickens.