I.A.M. Musing About…

So, after re-acquainting myself with ‘vertical’ and ‘non-sleeping’ (which was a bit tricky as the night prior wasn’t over until about 00.00 and a few pints) it was time to proceed to the next bit of the saga: the Centre of the Civilized World, the Cradle of Culture, the City That Contains All History (just don’t try to tell the French or Germans that… or the Israelis, or… okay, anyone, really): London!

After checking out of hotel and settling the matter of bills and fees and things, a taxi to the station was called, and as we went through the town the nice feller asked ‘did I get a chance to see the court…?’ Well, a matter of fact, yes! Why, yes I did! The reason I was in there didn’t seem to be germane, so wasn’t mentioned. Honestly, though, it’s a beautiful building inside. Apparently it’s to be converted into a Museum for the area shortly, but I never got it straight if that was a plan set in stone or if it was a proposal being floated. There certainly didn’t seem to be any sort of time attached to the scheme, no matter what level of acceptance it had gained. The matters held in that building now would be shifted to the courts in Leamington Spa, another victim of ‘centralisation’ and ‘streamlining’ that began after WWII to reduce the individuality of character for a borough or township.

Once yearly — during late August, I believe — the public is permitted to tour the entire Court House building, including the original gaol and prisoners’ cells in the basement that pre-date the building’s early 1800 construction via Public Subscription Scheme, which — as these things inevitably are — was cast aside after insufficient support and a local tax was levied to fund the Court House’s creation. Court Room ? One is a fairly close cousin of the Old Bailee in miniature, complete with accused appearing through a hole in the floor and galleries and all. The second is along similar lines, and the third is on the upper floor and was originally used as a lounge or meeting room for the Jury when ‘the great and the good’ were required to find guilt or innocence in a case. Now it is used for mostly civil matters, as well as the occasional case of ‘dangerous driving in the vicinity of a terrified colonial’. [ahem]

So… off to London via Chiltern Railways and the simultaneous experience of seeing the East Midlands during the day. How beautiful and how gentle the countryside; how soft and idyllic the landscape; how efficiently filled with piles of rubbish are the sides of National Railways right-of-ways. Ah-hhhhh.

Looking out at the passing countryside, I was struck by things as being unique to where I was. Certainly a train journey in Canada — for those who can afford one — will reveal farms, livestock, towns, and so on; but somehow this passing vision seemed specific to the site of the Island Kingdom: those are English cows laying down in those fields; that’s an English farmhouse at the edge of the field; that’s English graffiti tagging that tumble-down shed on the edge of the English rail yard, where English kids go to smoke dope! WOW!

While it’s good to remind yourself that you’re in a foreign country so as not to take things for granted, one can take things a tad too far if left un-checked.

Passengers on what was once called ‘BritRail’ are expected to have a broader vocabulary than Canadian ones, however. While many announcements haven’t stayed with me, the encouragement to ‘please alight at this platform’ if it was the one we needed was something that threw into a harsh light the fact I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Alight”? At home, people are told to ‘disembark’ possibly, or ‘leave the train’, and sometimes simply ‘get off’ (engendering snickering in those more prurient… not us though… no no no… only other people… yes…). It’s the little things such this that throw the cultural differences and intellectual comprehension betwixt the Mother Country and her Colonial Offspring into such sharp relief. As much as the English bemoan the reduction in quality of education for the country’s young people — and likely are quite justified and correct so to do — there is a vast swath of individuals who received this ‘new principles in education’ style of teaching, but there’s a good chunk of Canada of ‘above mean’ comprehension who would be soundly mocked by the well-below-average English person for their remarkably slim conversational vocabulary.

Having spent much of the southern journey — when not gazing at English cows, farmhouses, and dope sheds — scouring the Underground Map for a route from there to close to the hotel in less than three legs; each one of them involving shifting two pieces of luggage up and down from platform to train carriage. Finding no joy there for love nor money, after arriving at Marleybone Marylebone Station I approached a cabbie and bad him to transport me and my assembled what-not to mine hotel, and not to spare the energy levels of his mighty steeds, as this was an Important and Very Tired Colonial Personage which was suddenly in his care.

Having now checked in, and roughly assembled my oddments in the room assigned me, I set out to locate the Caffé Nero which was furthest from the hotel without actually having to cross the river.

Okay, that wasn’t the actual goal, but it ended up being the case in the end. About one mile to the south from the hotel at King’s Cross Road and Swinton is Chancery Lane Station on the Central Line. I did not, however, take the Central Line, choosing to walk in my search for Wi-Fi access to e-mail and the rest of the world. This was explained as being ‘the most effective way to acquaint oneself with the city’. Indeed, this was true, but the shins and thighs began saying ‘that’s great, but we really just want a hot bath right now…’ Dissuaded not, I persevered to the location which would prove to be the first of London to provide me with food and water, and the ability to communicate with loved ones.

Suddenly, an e-mail enquires if I am willing to head out for a quick pint or two? ‘Why not?’ is my enthusiastic reply… ‘however, I’ve not the faintest clue as to where this café is, as the street isn’t visible from the table, so the squeaky-clean copy of the London A-Z to hand is of little use. A delay sufficient to re-locate the hotel’ only about a certainty of 4:5 at that point, ‘and we can connect in the lobby, then onwards to locate pints of London’s finest ales!’

After a few delays — many of which involved me staring at corners of intersections wondering where the street signs were; then realising they were on the buildings’ outer walls — I managed to re gain the intersection where my bed was… and then frantically searched for more Wi-Fi access as it seemed I was the only one at the location… sure enough, another e-mail wished to know where the hotel was? ‘Ah… that might help a bit, yes. It’s the hotel at the corner of King’s Cross Road and… erm… King Rooster Chicken & Ribs…?’, this being the only location-based mark to be seen out the lobby window. Hardly enough specificity for anyone who hasn’t “the Knowledge”, as the cabbies refer to the memorization of street names whose index of names take-up pages 177 – 434 in the 2009 edition of the A-Z.

Oddly, we connected, and headed for a pub [research suggests this may very well have been the King Charles I, at 55 – 57 Northdown Street, but Admans Broadside consumed this night makes things tricky to be sure of], discussed the fact that pubs have always served London as living rooms; theatres; meeting rooms for not just political plotting, but also business and artistic organisations; due to their perceived neutrality of ownership by the community they were oft employed as court rooms, trial chambers; and places where important community members’ wakes were held, often with the person in question in attendance (albeit a little quiet and un-involved in the festivities).

A phone call informs us that we’re not to be met here by a third party, as they’re ‘working far too hard’, so off we head to the Lincoln Lounge which seems far more hip at the time than it does a few days later when we pass it during the day. When originally experienced, it feels like it’s got a serious case of being so hip there’s little possibility in anyone properly charting the size of its buttocks. The music of that ‘boompa-boompa-boompa’ sort suddenly gives way to something akin to St. Germain’s cool-old-skool jazz lounge tones, and we begin noting the assembling musicians dressed in… well… like Victorian Music Hall Entertainers, frankly. Not too surprisingly, this matched their thematic content of the evening. I almost followed one lithe young thing and her well-fitting jodhpurs into the Gentlemen’s, but it seemed to be impolite to engage in that sort of abandonment of fellowship for the more baser forms of entertainment so early in the experiencing of London and its many joys. Also, it was probable that the flesh filling that riding tackle was less than entirely feminine in physicality. It is London, after all.

We were finally three, had another round (it ought to have been mine by now, surely…?) and then headed for a restaurant… somewhere… we walked there past a wall-mounted sculpture of glazed half drain-tiles… I think… It was so dark… the routes were tortuous… I was so new to town…

We had tapas a-plenty. They were all delicious. Others insisted on paying, based on the ridiculous notion that I was engaged in negotiating the film rights for a work already written by one and to be produced and promoted by the other of our party. That’s what Inland Revenue will be told, anyway…

After all of this, I’m only barely able to put together where all of this took place, and the conversation itself is a blur of humorous banter, intelligent conversational interplay, and a flurry of verbal rubbish emanating from my mouth delivered in a slurred rendition of a Canadian accent.

Bed.

I slept until noon the next day.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 21st, 2008 at 1:34 am and is filed under BLOG-O-RAMA, rant. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.