As you may imagine it is on St Martin's Lane, which is in Covent Garden, in the West End, the traditional home of the performing arts in London.
This area was just pumping.
All day and all night.
There seems little evidence of the recession we all know Britain to be in, and the warmth and sunshine had neutralised the much publicised negativity from locals towards the upcoming Olympics.
The St Martin's Lane Hotel is in an unassuming building that resembles government offices, or low rent accommodation. The only exterior evidence of the luxury that lies within comes in the form of a perfect pair of topiary plants at the main entrance.
But upon walking through that revolving glass door, you are instantly transported into a cool, quiet sanctuary. The expansive space is defiant in its mere presence, given the crowds outside, and the tiny inner city dwellings for which this city is known.
Designed by Philippe Starck, who I've always felt is appropriately named, it does have that ultra modern cool concrete thing going on, of which I am not a big fan.
However, the palette, the opulent Louis inspired furniture and the witty touches in the other pieces bring warmth and personality, making it inviting and comforting.
And although I felt way too uncool to actually stay there, my traveling companion and I enjoyed the refuge provided by the foyer, the bar and the restaurant on several occasions.