I.A.M. Musing About…

This is one of those days that, simply put, exist. Not much was done, per se, but there wasn’t anything ill-done or which fits the category of ‘wasted effort’. By this time I really am starting to get the hang off the city now, and comfortably find my way around easily flipping between pages of the London A-Z when it’s needed, and merely permitting my instincts and piqued interest in attractive directions guide me. This sort of “wandering by fate” is certainly the way to explore and thereby discover a city’s real nature which can only be found off the main roads and high streets. The Important Roads and Historically Valuable Places are fine for what they are — going to the Palace of Westminster and seeing the Tower of London is all very well, and visiting UNESCO World Heritage Sites is an important thing to do — but were one to only do that, places such as the one in the photo below right would be completely missed and the how and why of people’s ordinary lives is far more fascinating to learn. Balancing differing experiences in an un-known city is like choosing what to eat: make sure you get enough things that are ‘good for you’, as well as things which are simply ‘fun to eat’.

For most of the morning, Head Death cripples my ability to comprehend what’s going on. This head full of pooh surely originates from either my weakened state caused by jet-lag and walking all over the place since arriving — I’ve had more exercise walking in the past six days than during the past six months — or possibly its something wandering the pressurised cabin of the æroplane; possibly both. I stumble through a mass of e-mail which I’ve been ignoring for a few days, as there’s lunch/tea at noon with the old cast mate who works at Murder One. Indeed, I almost e-mail or call her to cancel, due to this fug-filled head.

After drinking and eating every bit of probiotic yoghurt with fruit, assorted sliced fruit, and fruit-based drink in the place, the chemist further down the block is made to hand over some Lemsip MAX so that normality might be regained. After walking back to the hotel in the crisp air, the nose has cleared enough that clear thought is possible. Not too surprising considering it’s 11°.

A brief word about the weather whilst I was there. While London’s weather that day (air temperature of 11°, 55% relative humidity, dew point of 12°) was almost identical to the environment at home at the same point in local time (air temperature of 12°, relative humidity of 90%, dew point of 11°), but when stomping about the streets of London one felt a bit less than fresh after a block or so. Highly likely is the difference in humidity, as it was almost palpable at times. Granted, I could have slowed down a touch when walking; plus the fact I’m unused to this amount of exertion could have also contributed to the need to have my Harris Tweed jacket dry-cleaned upon returning to one’s ‘bide-a-well’. Still, the amount of moisture in the air is surprising to someone whose entire life has been spent in a rain forest. If there was one particular thing that required adjustment to during the trip, it was the difference in air moisture content.

Feeling better, I head into the outer edges of London’s N1: Islington, and a genuine “London caff” called the Shepherdess Café. Stepping out of the chill and arriving in the place after a bracing walk of at least ¾ mile the warmth of the room was only to be exceeded by the warmth of the welcome as I stumbled up the single low step inside the door. “You’re alright now, dear; you’ll be fine.” I look around dizzily for a good half-minute to see where my date is, then realizing it’s a good twenty minutes before noon when we arranged to meet. “I’m waiting for someone”, I explain. “Well you sit there next to the door, so you’ll see them straight away. Would you like a cup of tea?” Sitting down, I can think of nothing more perfect at that moment.

Places such as this feel like one’s stepped into the London of 1950s preserved in amber. The sheets of wood-panelling behind the counter have been perfectly maintained, but not altered since Harold Macmillan was Chancellor of the Exchequer. More than likely the menu hasn’t either. I opted for Chicken Soup and Lemon Tea for lunch, while my companion selected a toasted sandwich of some sort (the variety escapes me now).

On my way back to the hotel I permit passing impulse to guide my steps, ignoring the map entirely until a complete feeling of disorientation strikes. As a result, the Sadlers Wells Theatre presents itself before me. “Gracious, what an impressive building!” I cry. Learning the name from a banner, the famous nature of the place is comprehended, and the photograph on the left is shot, as well as a few others in the immediate vicinity. In fact, the buildings to the south-west along Rosebery Avenue are in many ways far more picturesque, if not at the very least easier to photograph.

Due to the continuing illness, it is determined that dinner must contain the cue-all of garlic — the larger and more chemically active the dosage the better — so Italian Food is sought in the multiple pages of Lonely Planet Britain which were scanned into a PDF before leaving home. My copy is not as up-to-date as that one, as it was published in 1997, but as things in England are not noted for their rapidity of alteration this matters very little, and as this book was very generously given by a dear, old friend, it really is more than perfect for one’s needs. How many things in London will have altered in a decade, after all? The Crown Jewels are still in the Tower of London, the National Portrait Gallery still has pictures of the Great and Good, and Buckingham Palace is still in the same precise spot as it always has.

With the exception of one category of information within its pages: restaurants. These, no matter where in the world you may be, often come and go within a matter of a few months, making the information in the 11-year-old edition less than entirely accurate. This fully understood beforehand, the journey to “Mille Pini” at 33 Boswell Street WC1 (below Ormond Close) really was being a tad too hopeful. The only defence available is ‘temporary stupidity’, as my head was full of pooh.

Surprisingly, the place was there, albeit with a different name. but they weren’t open until 6:00 and were seemingly more ‘pizza’ oriented. And, as this was only 4:45, plus I had already covered a good three miles or more on foot, I really wasn’t enthusiastic about turning around and heading back to the hotel, waiting for over an hour before I could even get into the restaurant — and who knows how much longer until food was provided — or really doing anything much at all. Shame, all that.

Rapidly considering what options were available brought the vague memory of an insane piece of architecture [image, right] called Sicilian Avenue (and how a building may be called an avenue is beyond me, but — fuck it — I’m sick, so don’t care at this point), and reason that anything with the word ‘Sicilian’ being used to describe it must have food heavily laced with garlic somewhere within it. Consulting the trusty London A-Z Street Atlas (2009 ed.), the place is found — Heavens be Praised! — almost literally around the corner.

When I regained consciousness, the result seems to have been me eating at The Spaghetti House at 20 Sicilian Avenue. They did fine with Cæsar Salad, Penne Arrabbiata, a cup of lemon tea, ½ bottle of sparkling water, and 250 ml of Salice… Salice-something-or-other for wine. Delightful and perfect for £22.40 plus gratuity. A bit stiff, yes, but considering the amount of food, the attention to service one received, and the fact that one only had to walk a few metres to get there, that was money well-spent. It turns out that there’s an Italian place almost across the street from the hotel, but I didn’t even know about it until later in the visit, and it wasn’t up to much anyway.

So, dinner completed and filled to the tits with garlic as was the purpose of all this, one arrives back to the room — having walked farther than intended, but well worth the thing in the end — where one watches the first episode of Blakes 7 [sic] and doze through final 10 minutes, then sleep (mostly) through night.

And that’s a fair bit about a day that really didn’t have much more than a some e-mail, a lunch meeting, and a dinner. Goes to show it’s not the number of things one does in a day, but the complexity of the things therein which makes the difference.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 2nd, 2008 at 9:32 pm and is filed under BLOG-O-RAMA, Humour, NEWS, 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.