So there we were, in the beating heart of the Rainbow Caliphate which is the UK, but not so fast. This is Pall Mall and the Reform Club and I tell you, there wasn't an emissary of the tyrannous New World Order in sight in the Coffee Room, at least a breakfast. So there is that.
Seriously though, I value London's clubland because it stands like an island of civilization in a sea of something else, a holdout of Great Britain, perhaps. It's fun too and congenial, which doesn't go amiss. Still, movement is a sign of life says the Philosopher, so off we went to the next and final set up, an Airbnb just off Covent Garden, in New Row.
"Cabbie, that'll be New Row, please," and off we sped. It's not far, walking distance, but bags were involved and a cab made sense, and it's fun too, like a tour. Then all of a sudden there we were, in New Row, with its Tesco Express, coffee shops, pubs and restaurants, about two minutes from Covent Garden and two minutes from Charing Cross Road.
Memories for me, for sure, and what a pleasant apartment, you can gaze down on Sheeky's from its overwatch. You know, I always used to love the curio bookseller shops between St. Martin's Lane and Charing Cross Road, and I love them today. They're still kinda there.
Whatev, Friday morning came all too soon and off we went to Paddington, Heathrow and a hideously cramped flight. Next time? Fly into Edinburgh and do the trip in reverse, with more time at the awesome RSC. All this, of course, if the UK remains a flyable destination.
END
2 comments:
"Gin Parlour" heh-heh.
Oh, HAIL yes. I am in.
Ah, the cabs of London.
Army buddy and I spent a few days and nights in London courtesy of an R & R program (not counted against your leave time). Rode a tour bus that then rode the ferry over from Ost End. We were briefed to beware unscrupulous cab drivers who might try to rip us off late in the wee hours. Fortunately, we did not encounter any.
I remember a few trips at a stately pace in the dignified Black Cabs. Delightful. Late one evening, our last club was Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club. Upon leaving, we hailed a cab, not black. Don't remember the make or model, but the driver had a very cheerful Jamaican accent. The trip back our hotel brought to mind an old song, something about a hot rod Lincoln and telephone poles going by like a picket fence.
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