The invitation to the Flamingo Room comes, misleadingly, with a warning: there are no flamingos. None. Not even a leg, a feather, or a cocktail stick in the shape of one. It’s a little like calling a place The Unicorn Grill and discovering they only serve goat. Years ago, on the roof of Kensington’s Roof Gardens, London, there really were flamingos — louche, pink, and faintly camp birds who looked as if they were waiting for Noël Coward to order a martini. I had assumed, in the way one does, that they had retired to Dubai, as so many Londoners do. But no — they’ve decamped to Norfolk, and the.
