Happy London
London’s on a para-Olympic high. Sun’s shining. Waiters are polite to the point of being almost friendly sometimes. The food’s more than passable (cross my heart it’s true). Buildings are scrubbed. Streets clean. I can’t remember the place so spruced up and welcoming.
Feeling sheepish, we climbed on one of those double decker tourist busses this morning. I’ve always felt sorry for people on those things. It’s such an admission of lowly tourist status. But sitting upstairs with a warm breeze combing our hair while guide Brian prattled away over the loudspeakers, we learned more about London and its history than in all previous visits combined.
For instance, I had no idea that….gosh, I can’t remember a word of what Brian said now, but it was fascinating. We hurtled across bridges, circled parks and palaces. Our bond with Brian became so deep we didn’t want to get off. In the end we stumbled down the steps off the bus at the riverside near the Globe theatre. It was the wrong time of day for a Shakespeare performance, so we went to the shop, bought Shakespeare souvenirs and had an excellent lunch at the adjoining pub.
After that we strolled past buskers who sounded like they actually rehearsed to the Tate Modern, an approved destination for the thinking person. Damien Hirst and Edvard Munch are flavours of the month.
We hung about trying to decide which one to buy tickets for. Personally, I was more attracted to Munch, but Philip has an aversion to emotional excess. Catching a glimpse of the gallery boutique where shopping bags emblazoned with “The Scream” were on display, I decided it was safer to queue for Hirst.
Joining the straggle of people lining up for tickets in the airless bowels of the Tate Modern, I was suddenly overcome by weariness. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bright idea to turn an old power station or whatever it was into an art gallery. It just felt concretey down there. Maybe we’d eaten too much lunch. I didn’t feel up to Hirst.
Fortunately, Philip was quick to agree that maybe we’d had enough for one morning. We’d be better off going back to the hotel for a rest. We have a big night ahead. My lovely UK publisher Lisa is taking us to see “Sweeney Todd”, one of my favourite musicals. I always worry about him at Sweeney Todd. But he doesn’t seem to mind the blood if it’s well done.
Now we’re back in the hotel room supposedly having a rest, but I’ve been checking emails and typing this instead. Even if we were trying to have a proper rest it wouldn’t have stopped a woman knocking on the door, clutching some kind of household cleanser, and asking if everything is okay.
Why do hotel people do that? Don’t they understand the reason we pay to stay in their establishments is so we can be left in peace?
There I go sounding old and grumpy again. But not nearly as old as London. Maybe we’ll go on another bus ride tomorrow and I’ll remember to take notes.
