2009
Yesterday I played Monopoly, only there is no free parking and you get the congestion tax instead. The get out of jail free I hope won't be needed and the Mayor says the community chest is empty.
My counter was a pair of shoes, my sister's a mobile phone, and the first roll of the dice - double six of course - took me to Westminster. Big Ben was silhouetted in the fog which has overlayed London since I arrived. The next throw got me onto the Eye which has replaced one of the utilities on the new Board. Up, up, up we went so slowly, trying not to look down and think of plunging into the cold brown Thames. There was Westminster Abbey and the Palace, St Pauls and Tower Bridge, the Gherkin and all those postcard places.
Then a long walk along the embankment to Tate Modern, the destination of every school tour - and they were all there. I gave the art a miss to escape the giggling pubescent throng.
Across Millenium Bridge where a busker was playing flamenco - heaven - and earned him a quid or two. Past the Middle Page Free House of Dickensian fame (so the sign said), on to the Apostrophe Café to a full stop at St Pauls. There I went to the Chapel of the Order of St Michael and St George and said a muted prayer for Dad who was awarded Membership of the Order.
Bought a poppy and remembered each of the soldiers killed in our Company in the Rhodesian war - a poignant moment in the precincts of St Pauls. I shed a tear or two.
Then to some retail therapy around the Board. From St Pauls a poor throw of four got me to Oxford Circus and I plunged into Oxford Street. Passed Go and bought John Lewis, Selfridges and Marks and Sparks with the two hundred quid I collected. Wandered through the perfumeries of my new properties, beautiful people smelling beautiful. The bag Prada was there too.
I bought a small voice recorder so I can take copious verbal notes of all I see and download it all onto the computer. So clever, it doubles as an MP3 player so I can look cool too.
Not looking so cool is my waistline, will have to adopt a strict regime when I get back. Lots of food, wine and more exercise. Later at Knightsbridge the Bouncing Buddhas gym served as a reminder that there is a price to be paid for sedentary existence and gastronomic indulgence.
Then to Bond Street and Marble Arch. A few throws later and I was in the Mitre at Lancaster Gate meeting a University friend Colin. An entrepeneur, he is one of the world's characters. His main business is taking tours of his friends to strange places - cycling in Borneo, climbing in Mexico, eating in Crete, hiking in Sicily.
Today, it was down the streets of Sheen past the inevitable council workers digging up the road. They no longer have shovels to lean on, everything is mechanised, so they lean on the ditchwitch and talk into their mobile phones. There is a smell of gas and a no flames no smoking sign has been erected - one of the labourers is smoking and talking on his mobile.
Onto the 209 bus which charged down the narrow streets to Hammersmith, bullying its way through timid traffic, missing cars by millimetres. Then down onto the Piccadilly line to Knightsbridge, emerging on Brompton Road to signs directing to Harrods, and McDonalds. Past Burberry, Zara, Armani, Kipling, Jaeger, Hawes and Curtis, where Dad bought his suits, and many others.
The verdigris covered towers and green awnings of Harrods covered window displays of languid plastic models reclining on sumptuous linen, Aston Martins sporting plastic Bonds, not Chesty but James.
Chic, slim Sloane rangers slouch along the pavement in the latest winter fashion - hip slung mini shorts with leopard skin patterned tights finished off with calf length boots.
Through to the food halls of Harrods with every delicacy from everywhere. Poultry, venison, cheese and chocolate, wines, oils and vinegars, with hungry shoppers and society hostesses salivating as they compile the next delicious menu.
Back on the street outside a bored rastafarian holds a sign encouraging shoppers to lunch at MacDonalds. Today’s papers say their attempt at healthy salads has failed and losing half a billion in profits, they are reverting to the fat full, but profitable, burger.
On to Racine, the French bistro at 239 Brompton Road, for luinch with a friend from university who I haven’t seen for thirty-four years, since we parted at the Gremlin drive-in restaurant in Salisbury. The olive oil was Spanish and rancid. Merde. The filet delicious, garnished with pepper not béarnaise, with the Bouncing Buddha’s in mind.
Home to East Sheen, stopping at Valentinas on the way for fresh ciabatta, tomatoes, basil and brie for dinner – washed down with prosecco.
Thursday and the sun is shining so I continue with the Monopoly Board. Royal Blue is Piccadilly Circus, guarded by Eros and where the 39 Steps is showing at the Criterion – its 25 to the toilet. Digital cameras and camera phones record time spent at Eros’s feet as classic London taxi’s and double-decker buses ferry their fares through the busy circus. The famous Café Royal in Green Regent Street is flanked by the American Bar Cheers, and of course MacDonalds. Yellow Coventry Street steers off at a tangent – how the colours of that capitalist monoploy game stick in the memory.
Down to Pall Mall, home of bankers and clubs – colourless, constrained as business and lunch is conducted behind massive oak doors guarded by liveried footmen. On the corner of the Mall and St James Street hangs the sign of Rothmans of Pall Mall, profits from smoking diminishing by the day, the brand lives on. Around the corner encased in leaded windows framed in solid oak is the Berry Brothers and Rudd, Specialist Wine Merchants – Established in the 17th Century – the sign states in mockery of its contemporary competition. The window display is Krug. Next door is Lock and Co, Milliners with bowler hats and trilbies displayed at the right angle. Completing the trilogy is John Lobb, Bootmaker to the Queen – By Appointment of course - and to the Duke and Prince.
Bentleys and Rolls Royces whisper around the corners, driven by black suited chauffeurs with starched shirts and fixed smiles. Middle eastern magnates recline on leather on the back seats, elbows supported by armrests, hands holding mobile phones transmitting business across the world.
And there walks the quintessential London business man, alone in pin stripe suit, bowler and neatly folded black umbrella – he comes from the direction of the Palace – perhaps he has been to see the Queen.
Here comes the band marching down St James Place, warm in grey greatcoats, playing Rule Britannia as they bring the guards back from changing. Relief from standing in the cold, impassive, unflinching as a never-ending throng of tourists use every antic to elicit a smile or provoke a twitch, all to be recorded on their flashcards.
Bobbies on horses keep the sightseers at bay, as the band changes tune and marches by with an aerial protruding from an anonymous grey box on the back of one of the bandsmen. A thought flashes, has karaoke breached the greatest tradition, are the bandsmen miming to the tune of the karaoke box. Just a thought.
And from all this grandeur and tradition to the purpose of the visit to Pall Mall – to meet my great friend at the Oxbridge Club. No 71 (not just 71), Pall Mall. As I approach the oak doors I see a bishop in his purple shirt and gold chain enter the Club, and with amusement notice I am passing Angel Lane.
Through the door to the inevitable anteroom where non-members must wait for their hosts. I inform the concierge that I am meeting Mr Nick, how easily one slips involuntarily into convention when surrounded by centuries of tradition. At least I didn’t add Esquire!
I waited by the fire in leather chairs watching the passing parade of ageing alumni, grey haired, spectacled, conversing in muted tones.
My friend arrived and after a gin and tonic we retired to the dining room to enjoy claret, guinea fowl with cranberry sauce and traditional vegetables. Thanksgiving in England – turkey was the roast of the day. We continued our conversation after a pause of over 30 years, swapping stories of our lives and of others long forgotten and now missed.
We retire again to the smoking room, collecting coffee dispensed by a machine which tested the ingenuity of the best of British brains. So much so that a waitress was stationed close by to give instructions. Then to the port, a 1977 vintage no less, to bring back the memories of late night learned discussions over decanters of Christopher’s Cristobel so many years ago.
After lunch it was back to the Piccadilly Line to Hammersmith and the 209 to East Sheen. A coke can rolled noisily across the floor of the bus as we frequently changed direction, and an empty MacDonalds packet was tucked under the seat in front, reminders of the different worlds that are forever England.
Yesterday I played Monopoly, only there is no free parking and you get the congestion tax instead. The get out of jail free I hope won't be needed and the Mayor says the community chest is empty.
My counter was a pair of shoes, my sister's a mobile phone, and the first roll of the dice - double six of course - took me to Westminster. Big Ben was silhouetted in the fog which has overlayed London since I arrived. The next throw got me onto the Eye which has replaced one of the utilities on the new Board. Up, up, up we went so slowly, trying not to look down and think of plunging into the cold brown Thames. There was Westminster Abbey and the Palace, St Pauls and Tower Bridge, the Gherkin and all those postcard places.
Then a long walk along the embankment to Tate Modern, the destination of every school tour - and they were all there. I gave the art a miss to escape the giggling pubescent throng.
Across Millenium Bridge where a busker was playing flamenco - heaven - and earned him a quid or two. Past the Middle Page Free House of Dickensian fame (so the sign said), on to the Apostrophe Café to a full stop at St Pauls. There I went to the Chapel of the Order of St Michael and St George and said a muted prayer for Dad who was awarded Membership of the Order.
Bought a poppy and remembered each of the soldiers killed in our Company in the Rhodesian war - a poignant moment in the precincts of St Pauls. I shed a tear or two.
Then to some retail therapy around the Board. From St Pauls a poor throw of four got me to Oxford Circus and I plunged into Oxford Street. Passed Go and bought John Lewis, Selfridges and Marks and Sparks with the two hundred quid I collected. Wandered through the perfumeries of my new properties, beautiful people smelling beautiful. The bag Prada was there too.
I bought a small voice recorder so I can take copious verbal notes of all I see and download it all onto the computer. So clever, it doubles as an MP3 player so I can look cool too.
Not looking so cool is my waistline, will have to adopt a strict regime when I get back. Lots of food, wine and more exercise. Later at Knightsbridge the Bouncing Buddhas gym served as a reminder that there is a price to be paid for sedentary existence and gastronomic indulgence.
Then to Bond Street and Marble Arch. A few throws later and I was in the Mitre at Lancaster Gate meeting a University friend Colin. An entrepeneur, he is one of the world's characters. His main business is taking tours of his friends to strange places - cycling in Borneo, climbing in Mexico, eating in Crete, hiking in Sicily.
Today, it was down the streets of Sheen past the inevitable council workers digging up the road. They no longer have shovels to lean on, everything is mechanised, so they lean on the ditchwitch and talk into their mobile phones. There is a smell of gas and a no flames no smoking sign has been erected - one of the labourers is smoking and talking on his mobile.
Onto the 209 bus which charged down the narrow streets to Hammersmith, bullying its way through timid traffic, missing cars by millimetres. Then down onto the Piccadilly line to Knightsbridge, emerging on Brompton Road to signs directing to Harrods, and McDonalds. Past Burberry, Zara, Armani, Kipling, Jaeger, Hawes and Curtis, where Dad bought his suits, and many others.
The verdigris covered towers and green awnings of Harrods covered window displays of languid plastic models reclining on sumptuous linen, Aston Martins sporting plastic Bonds, not Chesty but James.
Chic, slim Sloane rangers slouch along the pavement in the latest winter fashion - hip slung mini shorts with leopard skin patterned tights finished off with calf length boots.
Through to the food halls of Harrods with every delicacy from everywhere. Poultry, venison, cheese and chocolate, wines, oils and vinegars, with hungry shoppers and society hostesses salivating as they compile the next delicious menu.
Back on the street outside a bored rastafarian holds a sign encouraging shoppers to lunch at MacDonalds. Today’s papers say their attempt at healthy salads has failed and losing half a billion in profits, they are reverting to the fat full, but profitable, burger.
On to Racine, the French bistro at 239 Brompton Road, for luinch with a friend from university who I haven’t seen for thirty-four years, since we parted at the Gremlin drive-in restaurant in Salisbury. The olive oil was Spanish and rancid. Merde. The filet delicious, garnished with pepper not béarnaise, with the Bouncing Buddha’s in mind.
Home to East Sheen, stopping at Valentinas on the way for fresh ciabatta, tomatoes, basil and brie for dinner – washed down with prosecco.
Thursday and the sun is shining so I continue with the Monopoly Board. Royal Blue is Piccadilly Circus, guarded by Eros and where the 39 Steps is showing at the Criterion – its 25 to the toilet. Digital cameras and camera phones record time spent at Eros’s feet as classic London taxi’s and double-decker buses ferry their fares through the busy circus. The famous Café Royal in Green Regent Street is flanked by the American Bar Cheers, and of course MacDonalds. Yellow Coventry Street steers off at a tangent – how the colours of that capitalist monoploy game stick in the memory.
Down to Pall Mall, home of bankers and clubs – colourless, constrained as business and lunch is conducted behind massive oak doors guarded by liveried footmen. On the corner of the Mall and St James Street hangs the sign of Rothmans of Pall Mall, profits from smoking diminishing by the day, the brand lives on. Around the corner encased in leaded windows framed in solid oak is the Berry Brothers and Rudd, Specialist Wine Merchants – Established in the 17th Century – the sign states in mockery of its contemporary competition. The window display is Krug. Next door is Lock and Co, Milliners with bowler hats and trilbies displayed at the right angle. Completing the trilogy is John Lobb, Bootmaker to the Queen – By Appointment of course - and to the Duke and Prince.
Bentleys and Rolls Royces whisper around the corners, driven by black suited chauffeurs with starched shirts and fixed smiles. Middle eastern magnates recline on leather on the back seats, elbows supported by armrests, hands holding mobile phones transmitting business across the world.
And there walks the quintessential London business man, alone in pin stripe suit, bowler and neatly folded black umbrella – he comes from the direction of the Palace – perhaps he has been to see the Queen.
Here comes the band marching down St James Place, warm in grey greatcoats, playing Rule Britannia as they bring the guards back from changing. Relief from standing in the cold, impassive, unflinching as a never-ending throng of tourists use every antic to elicit a smile or provoke a twitch, all to be recorded on their flashcards.
Bobbies on horses keep the sightseers at bay, as the band changes tune and marches by with an aerial protruding from an anonymous grey box on the back of one of the bandsmen. A thought flashes, has karaoke breached the greatest tradition, are the bandsmen miming to the tune of the karaoke box. Just a thought.
And from all this grandeur and tradition to the purpose of the visit to Pall Mall – to meet my great friend at the Oxbridge Club. No 71 (not just 71), Pall Mall. As I approach the oak doors I see a bishop in his purple shirt and gold chain enter the Club, and with amusement notice I am passing Angel Lane.
Through the door to the inevitable anteroom where non-members must wait for their hosts. I inform the concierge that I am meeting Mr Nick, how easily one slips involuntarily into convention when surrounded by centuries of tradition. At least I didn’t add Esquire!
I waited by the fire in leather chairs watching the passing parade of ageing alumni, grey haired, spectacled, conversing in muted tones.
My friend arrived and after a gin and tonic we retired to the dining room to enjoy claret, guinea fowl with cranberry sauce and traditional vegetables. Thanksgiving in England – turkey was the roast of the day. We continued our conversation after a pause of over 30 years, swapping stories of our lives and of others long forgotten and now missed.
We retire again to the smoking room, collecting coffee dispensed by a machine which tested the ingenuity of the best of British brains. So much so that a waitress was stationed close by to give instructions. Then to the port, a 1977 vintage no less, to bring back the memories of late night learned discussions over decanters of Christopher’s Cristobel so many years ago.
After lunch it was back to the Piccadilly Line to Hammersmith and the 209 to East Sheen. A coke can rolled noisily across the floor of the bus as we frequently changed direction, and an empty MacDonalds packet was tucked under the seat in front, reminders of the different worlds that are forever England.
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