Last day in London town
I shifted my lodgings from SE22 (East Dulwich) to W11 (Notting Hill) yesterday, with great thanks to C&C (not the celebrated music factory) for putting me up and putting up with me. Their spare room is now drying-rack-free. I took the 185 bus to Victoria, which was an excellent method of birth control. I can't imagine a version of myself who holds a baby in one hand, folds up a pram with another, and juggles luggage using the hands of willing strangers on a crowded, lurching vehicle.
I am now enjoying a lovely and library-less morning at the lovely flat of my dear old friend the Gasmeter, whose home is on the Notting Hill Carnival parade route and is filled with how-to-get-your-new-baby-around-London books and other lovely things. I shall go for a wander in this extraordinarily overpriced postcode, tube over to Arsenal and see the no-longer-new stadium in which I have shamefully never been, and putter about with very little on my plate.
I've had an excellent trip. I've seen five shows (six after tonight's Pinter at the National), sixteen old friends, two Doctor Teeth gigs, and the insides of four libraries. I've eaten excellent Turkish and Thai food, deconstructed The Dark Knight with the best film-deconstructor I know, and lain on the grass of Cardinal Wolsey's lawn. I've pored over the remains of thirty-two productions of Henry V, and collated the texts of six editions. And I've stayed in London long enough for the tube to stop turning my snot black, which is a bit terrifying. Perhaps most importantly, I've realized that I'm now at a point in my long, happy crawl toward death where when I come to England, I get homesick. Not for America, per se -- I would have no trouble emigrating at all -- but for my particular home, which could conceivably be anywhere on the planet, but happens just now to be in the North American desert. That's never happened before, and I think it must be a good indication of contentment and love. Having enjoyed pints in the King's Arms, the Queen's Arms, the Cardinal's Arms, and the Churchill Arms, I'll be happily back in the arms that matter tomorrow night.
I am now enjoying a lovely and library-less morning at the lovely flat of my dear old friend the Gasmeter, whose home is on the Notting Hill Carnival parade route and is filled with how-to-get-your-new-baby-around-London books and other lovely things. I shall go for a wander in this extraordinarily overpriced postcode, tube over to Arsenal and see the no-longer-new stadium in which I have shamefully never been, and putter about with very little on my plate.
I've had an excellent trip. I've seen five shows (six after tonight's Pinter at the National), sixteen old friends, two Doctor Teeth gigs, and the insides of four libraries. I've eaten excellent Turkish and Thai food, deconstructed The Dark Knight with the best film-deconstructor I know, and lain on the grass of Cardinal Wolsey's lawn. I've pored over the remains of thirty-two productions of Henry V, and collated the texts of six editions. And I've stayed in London long enough for the tube to stop turning my snot black, which is a bit terrifying. Perhaps most importantly, I've realized that I'm now at a point in my long, happy crawl toward death where when I come to England, I get homesick. Not for America, per se -- I would have no trouble emigrating at all -- but for my particular home, which could conceivably be anywhere on the planet, but happens just now to be in the North American desert. That's never happened before, and I think it must be a good indication of contentment and love. Having enjoyed pints in the King's Arms, the Queen's Arms, the Cardinal's Arms, and the Churchill Arms, I'll be happily back in the arms that matter tomorrow night.
posted by James at 2:19 AM
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