I.A.M. Musing About…

Oh my goodness, what a slow start to the day. However, by the time the day was completed, events more than made-up for the late start.

A word, first about the hotel room [view from same; below right]: to use ‘Spartan’ as a description would be accurate, although it is surprisingly bereft of some of the more common amenities one might expect even in the more infamous discount road houses of the world. For instance, there is no telephone in the room. At all. This might not seem a difficulty, but the difficulty of receiving a wake-up call is a concern for someone with a need to be at Heathrow by 8:00 in the morning next week, never mind the difficulty of calling for help in case of a fire or injury. There ought to be an alarm clock built into the television, and mine does seem to have that option available, but it’s either been disabled or no longer functions. There’s a radio / alarm thing built into one of the bed-side tables, but that’s completely dead.

Note to self: purchase alarm clock before trip ends.

The lack of telephone wouldn’t be a problem for anyone within the UK and Europe, as the entire region operates on the same set of transmission frequencies and common network signal handling protocols (or however it’s termed), but even if one brings one’s mobile from North America, there’s only a 33% chance on it working upon arrival in the EU or UK. There’s one system in Canada sold by a company called Fido that advertised themselves as being a ‘world-wide solution’ when using all of their handsets, and now there’s the iPhone in Canada, and some of the up-market units can be used off North America — occasionally only after changing a setting or SIM card — but one has to make a determined and conscious effort to ensure one can do in the Motherland what one can do at home.

This difficulty of contacting me directly will prove to be a tad troublesome over the stay. You’ve no doubt already thought during yesterday’s post that a flurry of e-mails regarding a pint (and only after I had paid for a 24-hour access to the hotel’s Wi-Fi as the one purchased from BT didn’t seem to have any hot-spots closer than a dozen blocks from the hotel) could have been reduced to a simple three-minute chat on a mobile. Indeed, yes, that’s true, but the accomplishment of that would have necessitated me choosing over a year ago to get a mobile that included world-wide service coverage as part of the plan — at something like twenty-five cents a minute or something — and this would only be used for probably three weeks during the year, if that; meanwhile paying an extra $25 or more per month for the massively inflated number of options which accompany the “anywhere in the world” coverage. They know how to get your money, those people…

Yesterday was a Federal Election in Canada, so I high me to Canada House on Trafalgar Square [image left] — with the National Gallery, St Martin’s-in-the-Fields church and South Africa House also ringing the famous location marking the naval victory of Sir Admiral Nelson over the French and Spanish Navies during the Napoleonic Wars with a statue of the famous half-blind sea captain on a pillar which has been the centre of many celebrations and political protests over the years — as the Canadian High Commission in London has prepared for the veritable river of displaced Canucks seeking voting results. By this time I was already aware that there is another minority government for incumbent Prime Minister Stephen Harper, as Jennifer e-mailed me with the information having being revealed to her near bed-time for her, a few hours ago prior to the time I read it [to read an essay on the election results and the Prime Minister, go here]

But before getting to the only Canadian soil in London, example was given of just how important old-fashioned courtesy and respect for others is in that mighty centre of civilisation that is London. Whilst traversing the pavement near my hotel, I beheld one of a proud member of Her Majesty’s Royal Mail at the wheel of one of Her panel vans, communicating with two individuals of a less-than-youthful appearance who seemed to be loading the contents of a flat into the back of a van of their own. I know not whose flat was being emptied, nor the reasons therefore, but it seemed the individual in the Royal Mail van was less than supportive of the couple’s efforts in the matter, for he made quite free us of the English of his regal employer, stating “I call you cunt!” and sounding rather like The Doctor disarming an alien menace by revealing their true identity.

Much of the statements from the Royal Mail driver — all of which may be required of those in the employ of HRH ERII’s mails for all I know — seemed to be based around the fact that the truck at the kerb was being filled with someone’s personal items and the driver did not approve of this, to whit: “You are a fucking twat! To do that to someone… you’re a fucking twat! You fucking twat!” and so on.

Ah yes… the first full day in that cradle of civilization (London), and I’m already seeing a bold new standard of behaviour and intelligent discourse that would put Benjamin Disraeli, Oscar Wilde, and Bernard Shaw to shame.

It begins to drizzle, and it being the time it is, I duck into a pub on the eastern side of Russell Square for Fish & Chips and a glass of Lime Squash. It comes — not, as some might suggest, with a big girl’s blouse — with a full range of condiments including genuine HP Sauce®. Delightful. By the time I’m done, the rain has mostly disappeared, and this proves to be the only rain that manifests itself while I’m outside; something inconceivable for London in late October.

After learning the more intricate details of the Federal Election, I head over to a bookshop on Charing Cross Road called Murder One. Poking around the lower-level of the store provides a fair few things missing from the shelves at home, plus a couple of things which are suddenly important to have. Approaching the till, a woman suddenly calls to me… and it’s someone who was in the cast of a show I did in 1994. As it was said just the night before: London is really a small town, everyone knows each other. Even if they’ve yet not been here for 24 hours, it seems. We arrange to have coffee or lunch later in the week, as she happens to be a buyer at the store and has friends in another large store in town. Huzzah!

Later, dinner at The Union Tavern [interior image, right], consisting of a large glass of South African red called “Raoul’s Red Blend”; frisée salad with Roquefort cheese, sliced green apple, watercress, cherry tomatoes, with a sweet vinaigrette dressing; a moist, 3 cm thick fillét of salmon with avocado salsa, a damned good-sized lemon, baked potato nuggets, and a dark sauce of some sort. The service was impeccable — I’ve never noticed until now that the timing of the next course’s arrival is of benefit when you’ve had just enough time to finish and fully appreciate the first — and I returned twice more in as many days due to the menu and quality of preparation. I can’t recommend this ‘gastro-pub’ enough, frankly. If you’re unsure of what you want, or if you’re not adventurous about your meal, there’s a fixed menu option available for both Lunch and — before seven o’clock — Dinner. While not exactly central to much more than a couple of cookie-cutter hotels, and possibly the Sadlers Wells, it’s worth seeking this one out.

After waddling home, it was quiet night in with books and a bit of red wine while relaxing in a tub with a semi-sloped back. Bliss!

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 26th, 2008 at 6:57 pm and is filed under BLOG-O-RAMA. 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.