We were in London most of last week. No special reason, just a short break doing touristy stuff with the Boy. We travelled by rail, rented a lovely apartment in a narrow little street in Spitalfields, hopped on and off underground trains and, mindful of the mister's still impaired mobility and differing interests, fitted in:
- an hour or two in the company of some celebrity vehicles
- a night at the theatre (yes, a different production to the one we had tickets for but a cast change and temporary closure meant some last minute rearranging)
- lots of coffee and cake breaks
- an evening meander along Brick Lane and being hassled every couple of steps by restaurant touts which had the opposite effect to the one aimed for
- half a day browsing, tasting and spending at the market
- a linger by the river
- a moment to reflect alongside the poppies
- a visit to the Imperial War Museum and remembering that a much missed dear friend used to attend the school opposite
- about 5 minutes in Camden which was long enough, thank you very much
- a ride up the city's (and apparently western Europe's) tallest building and a glass or two of champagne at the top
- a walk across a bridge and some landmark spotting
Now we're back home and have mostly caught up. Animals have been collected from their respective holiday homes, cases have been emptied, clothes washed, ironed and put away, the garden has been tidied, a couple of recorded TV programmes have been watched and I'm sitting here asking myself:
- why, when it's so easy to jump on an East Coast train, don't we visit the capital more frequently?
- how come we brought back so much stuff - fruit, veg, bread, cereals (it isn't granola, it isn't muesli, it's granuesli), chocolate, cakes, coconut in various forms, cheese, oils, spices, Turkish delight - to eat?
- what the hell is going on with Lady Mary from Downton's accent?