By now, I really am starting to get the hang off the city now. No, seriously! Watch; we’ll pop down here and take a short-cut I’ve learned that will… oh… this is the dead-end I’ve learned… right… Okay, let’s go back to the main road behind and then we’ll… oh… hang on, it ought to be… I’ll just look at the A-Z for a minute…

The head-death continues un-abated, and the lack of deep sleep last evening doesn’t help the feeling of confusion and dis-orientation. Yes, eventually, those Morphean arms of rest were reached, but the ability to remain in their warm embrace was neither un-interrupted nor even sufficiently long to provide any depth of sleep so badly needed by the body to utilise its recuperative powers. The fact that I’ve neither alarm clock nor any other hotel-provided system of knowing the time to arise probably doesn’t help, as the mind needs to keep checking on how the time’s getting on every ninety minutes or so. At one point I take to getting out of bed, turning on the laptop, waiting for Windows to start, looking at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen, then powering down, then getting back into bed; all just to do the same as glancing at one’s bed-side clock would normally accomplish. This must end, and I resolve to get both a clock with ability to right its alarum bells, as well as some sort of medical capsules with have both a decongestant and narcotic in as high amounts as can be had without putting a G.P. in a headlock so as to obtain a prescription.

As is the norm now, one breakfasts at the Exmouth Market Caffé Nero in Clerkenwell, with more juice and yoghurt than you can shake a stick at. Sadly, today they’re out of the selections of sliced, fresh fruit that I’ve grown fond of. Damn. The citric acidity is wonderfully able to cut through phlegm, and the Vitamin C must be doing something to at least stave off this cold getting worse.

A good number of hours are spent dealing with e-mail aplenty about so very many things. One of today’s chief topics is arranging to spend Tuesday with fellow Humdrumming person Trudi Topham. She claims to have abilities profound with the leading of men from foreign parts about inside the confines of large national facilities. The destination of a few days from now is The National Gallery, one of Jennifer’s favourite places to visit when she was a Gardener Trainee at Windsor Great Park. Many wonderful things are in the building and at least some of them ought to be seen before one leaves.

Such time is spent doing all of this e-mail that Luncheon is taken at this coffee house of joy near the Mount Pleasant sorting station, consisting of some sort of Fruit Booster Smoothie Thing. So healthy is it, that one can almost taste it through the nasal pooh filling the canals of one’s skull. After leaving the coffee house, I re-locate the chemist’s and pay for a packet of “Lemsip MAX” AM/PM… If this doesn’t work, there shall be some blood spilt in Olde London Towne methinks…

I locate, with some difficulty, a business willing to make much of my clothing cleaner than it currently is. The hope was for a laundrette to be near-by, possibly with free in-house wi-fi. However, blast it, such is not to hand without travelling some distance, and its probably asking far too much for provision of world communication technology as well. None the less, after a short walk up King’s Cross Road almost to Pentonville Road, one locates a cleaner who agrees to cleanse my several kilos of clothing so that it might be fresher and less bacteria-ridden. Soon, at least my clothes will smell English.

Heading through town on the way to a meeting with Bristol-based author of skill John Llewellyn Probert, the British Museum is used as a geographic guidepost around which to navigate. On one side of it, the Bloomsbury Hotel [image; above, left], near which Russell Square forms the heart of Bloomsbury, with the Russell Square Gardens being historically surrounded by offices of publishers who released Great Works of Literature (so declared due to… the publishers saying they were, and no one was able to successfully argue against them, so the label stuck). Now, of course, the publishing offices are mostly located in Chelsea or Kensington (where the heating’s more modern), but here is the place where England’s Literary Power was located between the World Wars.

Heading south from the B.M. along the mysteriously named “Museum Street” (how do they come up with these names?), one comes upon Drury Lane almost by accident after crossing the vast width of High Holborn. Pity most of it is dug up, though [photo; right]. When now looking at north end of it in the borough of Camden, it’s tough to see it as having once being the fabled street of dreams during the late-Victorian Era, with actors heading to the Theatre Royal negotiating their way through the area’s prostitution and past its gin palaces; never mind as this being the reputed location of the home of The Muffin Man. Still, it’s charming, what? One of the places one ought to see, if only to say ‘one was there once, you know…’

After wandering past the Freemason’s Hall and taking pictures of the imposing façade famous for its standing in for Thames House, the headquarters of MI5, in the series Spooks (or MI5 in the US broadcasts), I arrive at Holborn Station where I am to meet with Mr. Probert in the time-honoured fashion of ‘you shall know me by my red tuxedo jacket and matching fez’. Standing outside the Kingsway exit and attempting to get a wi-fi signal on my laptop as traffic and plebeians sweep past me in equal amounts of ‘a fuck of a lot’, one does feel a tad outré with one’s sartorial choices. Still, this is the method of recognition which was agreed upon. He locates me, and we re-locate to the Prince of Wales Pub to discuss things literary.

On the way there, we pass a crowd of young people who we supposed were queuing to be considered for inclusion in Britain’s Got Talent. We agreed it was a shame that, if Britain did indeed have any, none of it was in evidence that day. Perhaps it was taking a week-end in Belgium, but we hoped it was able to have a nice break.

While working our way to the bar and then the ensuing safari to locate a table for ourselves, we both noted the Pearly King and Queen in residence having a spot of late luncheon. While considering the taking of a photo or two, it seemed… well, odd, as I was still wearing a fez … so I didn’t. You don’t want to look too much of a touristy git, do you? There’s even limits to how much I wish to draw attention to myself.

Mr. Probert and I part each other’s company a short time later, neither of us having threatened the other’s life indicating something positive at the very least. As we returned to the Tube Station we considered barging our way into the audition room of Britain’s Got Talent to ‘show ‘em how it’s done’, but decided that the poor young people would be so crushed by the obvious superiority of John’s piano bashing and my singing/interesting movement that they would go home weeping. As a result, we protected the sanctity of the dreams held so tightly by the throng standing upon the Great Queen Street pavement.

I head to The Union Tavern, intending to have dinner. Upon arriving there, however, the nice publican informs me that ‘chef is just getting in,’ so dinner will be a bit delayed. ‘Perhaps Sir would wish to return in a couple of hours, say at 6:30…?’ And perhaps after one is no longer wearing such a silly hat, one suggests? He pauses ever-so-slightly before responding ‘As you wish, Sir…’ So, I head to the hotel and decide to dine at Smithy’s instead, it being a short distance away in the very-out-of-the-way bit along Leeke Street. Dinner began with a salad of warm mozzarella with braised fennel and red onion on rocket, with a pesto-based dressing; then this was followed by the most incredible duck a l’orange of my life! Accompanying the moist, flawlessly prepared fowl, was spinach and roasted butter-nut squash, as well as fresh sour-dough bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. ‘Afters’ consisted of pistachio and black current ice cream, as well as elderberry sorbet, the three presented in equal amounts in a small bowl. There was wine had, but there is no note from the evening regarding the varietal, never mind even the vintner country.

The result was a bill of something larger than one would have liked, as it wasn’t the intention to ‘splash out’ this evening, but… well, I’ll remember this meal for a long while. The greatest shame was that Jennifer wasn’t here for it, as she’d really have loved it. Very much a wonderful place with perfect service, excellent food, and a fair selection of real ales, this is a place to head to without worrying about the price, as the value is the thing. More about them on their web-site here.

After the meal one perambulated back to the hotel, where one endured two more episodes of Blakes 7… thinking “it’s got to get better now that we’re getting more stuff set-up, right…? …please?”

And so, to sleep; perchance to rest properly for a change.

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.

Being in the UK and appreciating civilisation’s finest achievements, basically. After some business in the western Midlands from my arrival in the Sceptred Isle until the 13^th of this month, I shall be located in the capital of Right Thinking People (London) until the 24^th. At that point I’ll be boarding an æroplane and returning to my beloved wife here in damp, dark, dank Burnaby. Bleah…

Whilst in the New Jerusalem, however, things such as this, these, and this shall be visited, in between regular consulting of this information, occasional glances at this, and — inevitably — some important consultation of this so as to experience the area in all its forms and incarnations.

I hope to have several business meetings with people in London during the period, as this is an invaluable opportunity to [ahem] press the flesh, as well as meet people whose writing I love and/or intend to publish.

Also likely is some merry jape / caper-like activities. One hopes, at least.

If there is no other goal in mind, there is at least the locating of things such as those outlined in Christopher Fowler’s blog entry here.

I am taking a brand-new, tiny, little laptop with me [see photo, left] and — in conjunction with consulting the ‘free London Wi-Fi’ map above — shall be attempting to summarise events and/or experiences on a fairly steady basis. If nothing else, it will give me a reason to not follow some skin-head into the depths of Soho to locate “the fellah who can gets you any-fing you’se can imagine, and sum fings you can’t… if you receive my meanings, Guv?”

Release the hounds…!

Many of you know that I enjoy history, architecture, social geography, culture, beer, and a damned good mystery.

Christopher Fowler’s “Bryant and May” series of books (six in total) are all set in London — or near as — and deal with all of those topics. Damned good stuff.

The latest — The Victoria Vanishes — is out now and features much discussion and details of pubs in London. I’ve not yet read it (or the previous title, White Corridor), and that will have to wait until October when I pick it up at Humdrumming Logistics Central [aka: “Trudi’s house”].

For those of you who know some pubs in the area, or have read about them, or want to know / read about them, head to this post on his blog all about the pubs he was fascinated by when writing the book: The Victoria Vanishes.

Even if you care nothing for beer, or for mysteries, or for London, it’s a fascinating bit of writing, and something that you wouldn’t think of initially when someone says ‘we must preserve the people’s heritage’, is it? Goes to show, eh?

LATER EDIT: added link to the post I’m babbling about. DOH!

LATER LATER EDIT: adjusted link to reflect new URL