We had an empty Islington apartment at our disposal for a week, and we were determined to see all the big city had to offer (yes, I had visited a fortnight earlier but, trust me, it's not the same when you have a fellow explorer). Our first night we spent catching up on those odd 240 days while playing a mean game of scrabble ( the use of an online dictionary meant quite a few words would not be snuff enough for a true scrabble connoisseur but it did mean we finished the game with no letters spare).
It was decided that a picnic in Hyde Park was in order so we met with Ella's Melbourne friends and spent more than a few hours sprawled on the lawns eating and squirrel watching. The first animal sighting drew enthusiastic shouts from the picnic-rug crowd before it was noted that the animal in question was a rather overweight rat-variety rodent. I can't pronounce it a rat with any real surety as none of us agreed on the object in its mouth - apple, bread, or twig. Our sightings were so varied, we may not have seen anything alive at all. Anyway more exciting perhaps was the romantic lunch on the neighbouring hill: gentlemen had arrived with rug, champagne bottle and picnic lunch in wicker basket, and was dashingly dressed in a buttoned up white shirt.
Since we humans have to eat frequently, we met up with our picnic companions at an African restaurant in Brixton, where E and I enjoyed the most satisfying spicy meat with lemon pancake. We actually got to eat with our hands and I'm still not sure if that concept was more fun than the meal. I can't convey the magic of the food in great detail because every time I try to imagine what it was like to roll a piece of meat in pancake my mouth starts to salivate. We danced the night over at Hootenanny's – a live music venue that was, to say the least, extremely cool.
Since vintage-clothes window shopping tends to brighten moods and real shopping was out of the question, we bussed our way to Brick Lane and spent the afternoon imagining what our lives would be like if we wore that dress with that hat and those shoes, and when these imaginings stopped to let hunger in we realised what the time was and made a mad dash to Royal Albert Hall because we had a date at the Proms. A deliciously nice evening even if we did have to lean over at ninety degree angles to catch glimpses of the orchestra. At least we had a wonderful view of the ceiling and the very appealing, if highly unusual, white pie-shaped objects floating in the sky. If I ever go back, I'll buy a standing ticket, which, though the name suggests otherwise, doesn't actually mean you have to stand for the duration of the evening. In fact, one can spend the whole evening on one's back with a pillow, like the fortunate gentlemen in the tweed coat.
Our outing to Brighton was dampened by poor weather (hard rain and figure reshaping winds) but we managed a beach stroll and were able to fit in some free deckchair lounging on the pier before the sun gave up completely and went home. I located a secondhand book shop and for 2 pound scored a beaten up copy of Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue and a homemade bookmark: a 1994 receipt for a kettle. Since we were in a beach-y frame of mind we finished the day with nothing-can-beat-us fish and chips at the marina.
No trip to London is complete without a visit to those grand buildings of free admission. We set about tackling the National History Museum, and spent more than enough time in the children's area playing their games. You'll be glad to note that my spacial awareness is better than that of a four year old. We tracked down Jane Austen's portrait – a tiny weeny sketch of disappointment – were satisfied with Charlotte Bronte and Edith Wharton, and found much to amuse ourselves with the royal family's ancestors and their poor taste in trousers.
If I were to give up my ordinary day-to-day life and move to a castle, I would relocate to Eltham Palace, even if the train ride did seem overly long and then there was the matter of walking up a hill. A great deal of my wish to live here is to do with the palace's Art Deco stylings and my potential boudoir with its curved ceilings and gold-tiled bathroom walls - part of it is to do with the previous owners, Ginny and Steve, who owned a pet lemur and had tea parties on the lawn, but a smaller though equally important part is that anyone who visited me would have to wear blue plastic bags on their feet (as we did) and I think I'd enjoy my dressed up guests with bag-covered shoes.
When I was a little girl I read books about other little girls who went to Sadler Wells, a famous ballet school that churned out the most marvellous dancers the world had ever seen (this was a world that only really cared about ballet and not much else). What I didn't know was that this particular place was in fact real and that it was just down the street from where we were staying.
I didn't read books about shoes but that doesn't mean my love for them is any less great than for those ballet stories, so it was with much delight when I spied a poster for a musical dance production titled Shoes being performed at the Wells and that tickets were a mere ten pound. Even better, Kate Miller-Heidke was singing, and nothing was keeping Ella and me from attending. A night of delights for less than a price of a book is worth some punctuation marks at the very least!!
After much research we discovered that the only way to get into Westminster Abby without parting with money was to attend Evensong. We were five minutes late and it's rather hard to stop you shoe's tap from echoing about even when you're tiptoeing. Signs told us that under no circumstance were we allowed to take photographs but it really didn't matter as the singing was more special than the interiors and that couldn't be captured by photography - I do worry though that my memory isn't a worthy recorder.
Our last day was spent at Greenwich where Ella was determined to have her picture taken on the Meridian Line since her favourite Doctor Who character has stood on the very spot. Such fierce determination has nothing on a hundred excited camera-carrying Japanese tourists and with a sad look E turned away from the snaking queue and headed towards the exit. The exit takes you back inside the building where the line is marked in brass on the floor and so I pointed out to Ella that despite the fury of No Photographs signs this was a perfect opportunity for her portrait, and since I didn't mind disobeying rules in the slightest, I snapped.
The final page was high tea in Covent Garden – two girls and a three-tiered tray of cakes. Not a crumb was spared.
