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.

The British Museum is explored, and fills my tiny brain so much it threatens to explode on the floor.

My first full day in London. A late start doesn’t diminish the number of things conquered: a Royal Mail filth-mouth, election results, a surprise meeting, and a wonderful dinner. Huzzah!