The AFL Grand Final - Part 1 of 2

Earlier in the week, I had made a commitment to LW to meet her at a bar in Putney this morning to watch the AFL Grand Final telecast. First bounce was at some ungodly hour - 5.30am or something, so I figured that making such plans any day - let alone a Saturday - was about as close to crazy as you can get.

Still, when my alarm sounded at 0400 hours, I managed to hear it and get out of bed without grumbling too much. It was a freezing cold morning, as far as I was concerned anyway, and I had to make a cup of tea before even thinking about heading into the bathroom.

I got out of the house ahead of schedule, which was a good thing too because the bus turned up early. The bus driver didn't use his brake the whole way to Putney, so my usual 15 minute commute was pretty much cut in half. It was great. I caught up with LW out the front of the Putney train station and together we power-walked up the High Street in the direction of the pubs we felt fairly certain would be open.

We got to the last bar on the street, a ridiculously-named place called The Wahoo. The last of the crowd was milling outside, lining up to get in and it was then that LW and I wondered whether we should have bought tickets in advance. I seem to recall making a rather loud pronouncement at the beginning of the week that I would never enter an establishment with such a ridiculous name as Wahoo, but I have to say that at 0525 on a cold Saturday morning, it seemed a pretty good spot to me.

But of course the universe has a bitchy sense of humour and as it turned out, the bar had reached capacity. Because we didn't have tickets, the bouncer wouldn't let us in. He told us that the closest bar - as a backup plan - was The King's Arms, across the Putney Bridge, at the top of the Fulham High Street. So across the bridge we went (again in record time), marvelling at how peaceful the Thames looked in the pre-dawn - a sick joke really, as neither of us could really see the River, as everywhere was still pitch black.

Showing some brilliant hospitality, The King's Arms welcomed us warmly, and charged us 5GBP each admission - we gladly paid it. There were loads of people seated around huge flat-screen TVs on either side of the pub, but hardly anyone was standing in the middle of the room. There was nobody lining the bar either, so that's precisely where LW and I stood - with an uninterrupted view of the TV screen behind the bar.

LW is a one-eyed, completely raucous Collingwood supporter and so I obviously wore black and white to keep her company. We chatted a bit during the commercial breaks, we screamed at the TV, we perved on the players, we alternately criticised and praised them; it was a great morning. The fourth quarter was so tense, I don't think either of us breathed and when it was all over - with the scores tied for the first time since 1977 - neither of us could follow what was actually happening. Would they go into extra time? Do they play until the first team scores? We had no idea. Then the players started leaving the ground and giving media interviews etc and we realised the game was over - well not only that, but it dawned on us that we'd both have to come back next week and do it again. Crikey! Talk about an emotional rollercoaster...

We left the pub pretty much straight after the game ended, and wandered slowly back the way we'd come. We crossed the Putney Bridge, marvelling (for real this time) that the Thames really did look peaceful after all. We stopped off at a small Italian cafe by the Putney train station for a greasy cooked breakfast and we both declared ourselves to be ready for a nana nap.

Sure it was tiring to be up and out that early today, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. The atmosphere at the pub was really good and I think a lot of that was because the pub wasn't too crowded and what crowd their was, was really fun. I'm sure next week's adventure will be just as good.

Three down

Up until last week, whenever anybody asked me how long I'd been in London, I told them in weeks. It was never "two months", it was "8 weeks"; never "nearly three months", but "10 weeks". Precise, but weird. I know.

So last week I had my three month anniversary of living here. Appropriately enough it passed by uneventfully, and I didn't mention it at work lest they make me bring in cupcakes or something.

To be honest, three months is a long time (though let's face it, 12 weeks sounds a lot longer). Still, a lot has happened in that time, much of which I have shared on this site. Bits of the adventure have been stored in my brain for future recall to my therapist, while the rest - things like grocery shopping and eyebrow waxes - have been cast into the "too boring even to mention" category.

As I type this, I am shovelling forkfuls of Marks & Spencer heat & eat risotto into my mouth. I have become quite a devotee of these microwave meals - they're cheap; healthy; and accessible to me. I usually pick them up at the M&S at Waterloo station, before the nightly commute reduces my will to live and basically sucks my soul out through my ass. I think the promise of a delicious M&S spinster meal is the only thing that keeps me from going postal on those commutes.

I've slackened off on my theatre outings lately, partly because I was waiting until my cousin & his gf got here (we still plan on going together to see something). But partly I've been saving money because I need to look for another place to live at the start of November. According to an Aussie lady I spoke to the other day, the London rental/sharing market dries up towards the end of November, so I'm heading into busy time. Over the last 3 months I've also developed a bit of a snobby list of things I want (and don't want) in a sharing arrangement. Boring things like a double bed I can walk around; a shower that is hot and powerful; and room mates that keep the house clean and know how to wash (themselves and their dishes). Note that this is not an exhaustive list.

I guess what I'm saying is, I feel like I've had my settling-in period so the next three months will most likely be my settling-DOWN period. With the power of fantastical foresight, I suspect the next three months will be about finding somewhere more permanent to live; trying not to hurt myself (or others) on public transportation; and - perhaps most exciting of all - sampling new and exciting M&S meals. Uh-oh, that all seems like much of the same, doesn't it?

Well let's make a deal then. Over the next three months, I'll do all those things I mentioned above, but I will also:

• Go outdoor ice skating at Somerset House, across the street from my Office (even though I lived in Chi-town for nearly 4 years and never once did this);
• See more live theatre (with or without my cousin and his gf);
• See Europe (nowhere specific at the moment - just Europe in general, since it's right there and all); and
• Go back to Oz for a visit in November.

I cheated with the last one of course - my tickets are already booked. But it still counts.

We're in for a dynamic three months, friends. Just you wait and see...

Survival in three letters

"If you want a really good burger when you're living in London," my friend KB advised, "then look no further than GBK". And she pointed to the store on our right. Gourmet Burger Kitchen is known to the locals as GBK and those three simple initials are totally worth remembering.

GBK is actually a chain of stores that was started by 3 New Zealanders back in 2001 (I read this on the website). The first store that I saw that day with KB was in the Clapham High Street. Today I visited the store at Putney, tucked away down a little side street but I must have sensed it somehow. It's simple signage basically jumped out at me and I knew we had to go there. "Just to taste," as Crazy Granny would say.

Sundays at the Putney GBK is apparently Family Day. We got seated and then the useless waitresses asked us to move tables so that they could accommodate a family of mother, father and about 4,000 kids. At first I was irritated by this but then I realised they were asking us to move to the other side of the restaurant and that suited me just fine.

My burger was delicious. I ordered a Greek Mint burger, which is basically made of lamb mince with mint (duh), plus the usual salads and some chilli sauce with mild tzatziki added in. The best of the souvlaki and burger worlds, all mixed together. How could I lose?! As I stuffed in the piping hot chips I forgot about the screaming kids, even the charming child who decided to kick her mother in the shins at the cash register.

LW ordered a bacon & avocado burger (with the customary beef pattie) which she said was very tasty, though she hastened to add that in her expert opinion, Australian bacon is far superior to the British varieties. The only bacon I've ingested here has been in bacon sarnies stuffed in to fend off nasty hangovers, so admittedly I have not really savoured its flavour. Perhaps I need to work on this so that I can draw an educated conclusion of my own? Literally food for thought, no?

Anyway to walk off the burgers we wandered down the Putney High Street and it's great. It boasts loads of great boutiques, even ones you'd find on busy Oxford Street in the city - just without the ridiculous crowds. The cold air is starting to creep in to London now, so admittedly my post-lunch retail therapy focussed on warm fleeces and snuggly woollen goodies but I exercised discipline and came away empty-handed. Next time, maybe.

You say "exile" like it's a bad thing

It's Sunday morning and I'm already up, nursing a hot cup of tea and some pretty classy bed hair.

Yesterday I placed myself under house arrest - something I do when I need to catch up on sleeping/watching TV/reading (circle whichever is appropriate). In this case, I did a bit of all those things - and managed to knock off a fair bit of my latest Ken Folland reading project, the sequel to his amazing literary paperweight, Pillars of the Earth. My week had been a busy one and so in my view at least, the voluntary exile was necessary and very, very welcome indeed.

The week in review? Well let's check the highlights:

• Monday was a visit to a cocktail bar near work, where the barmen were evidently having way more fun than the patrons (weird). The bartender at said establishment did something pretty disgusting with the cocktail shaker when I told him I didn't mind "dirty" martinis. And so, in thinly-disguised revulsion, and is my usual way anyway, I ordered a French martini.
• Tuesday was pretty much a standard work day, but I knew what was coming in my week so I laid pretty low.
• Wednesday, S&C got to London and I took a half-day off work to go out to Heathrow to meet them. I wasn't sure how many people would be in the T3 Arrivals Hall, so I borrowed an Australian flag to wave - more so S&C would have no trouble seeing me in the crowd. One of my bosses found this tactic slightly amusing and made an offhanded remark about my "uniqueness", and I'm still trying to figure out if it was a compliment or not. Ensuring my weary travellers got booked into their hotel OK, I took them for a really long walk through Trafalgar Square and up into Piccadilly Circus, where we had a really tasty Italian dinner.
• Thursday was work happy hour day and because my office was hosting it, I worked behind the bar. S&C's Contiki trip was starting bright and early the next day, so I didn't get to see them but I wished them a safe trip and encouraged them to text me news as they tootled around the UK. Normally I don't drink when I work behind the bar at office happy hours (you're allowed to, I just don't like to do it), but obviously on this particular Thursday night I was influenced by the company I was keeping (oh isn't it so often that way?!). Fast forward to a rather boisterous Thai dinner after the happy hour, followed by a giggly commute home on the last train around for miles.
• Friday morning was horrible and I would have complained about it, but I had lost the power of coherent speech until at least lunchtime. The office was vewy, vewy qwiet. There is something to be said for hangovers in your 30s - they are a vicious, horrible thing. Needless to say I was in no state to go anywhere after work but I made it through the whole day (hurrah!) and about 20 seconds after walking through my front door, I was in my pyjamas again.
• Saturday, as we already know, was a day of rest and recuperation - not just from Thursday night, but from the whole week that was.

Today is different. Today I have rebounded and I'm actually going to leave the house and enjoy a delicious brunch in Putney, a lovely part of the city just southwest of where I'm living (only 1 train stop further on the line). It's not a particularly sunny Sunday today, but once this load of laundry has finished, I'm going to head out and face the day anyway. Bring it on.

Happy Roald Dahl Day!

September 13 is Roald Dahl Day - but you knew that, didn't you?

I knew it too, I had just momentarily forgotten about it and therefore missed all the celebrations going on this past weekend at the Roald Dahl Museum up in North Missenden, about 45 minutes on the train from London.

I think everyone my age has their own memories of growing up with Roald Dahl and reaping the benefits of his amazing imagination. My favourite of his books remains The BFG but then again I was partial to The Twits and James and the Giant Peach too. It is probably unfortunate that I rember the movie versions of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory better than the original book, but there's nothing I can do about that now. I read once that Dahl was a particularly grouchy old man, but I can't reconcile that impression of him with the author of such wonderful books. I dunno, it just doesn't fit.

So I'm going out tonight to toast this auspicious day, and enjoy something scrumdiddlyumptious in his honour, to celebrate the man whose creativity brought us all some much-loved characters and tales. Here's cheers, to Mr.D!

And PS on a literally related front, I read on the weekend that RD's grand-daughter Sophie is expecting her first baby, with her adorable husband Jamie Cullum. Aww, bless!

Mimosas in Marylebone, and then some...

I had an early start yesterday thanks to Gus the Wonderdog, but I had always planned to get up early anyway because I knew that K & C would be coming to town, from Paris and Brussels, respectively. Both girls caught the Eurostar to London and that is a journey I must try someday soon. From Paris the journey is just short of 3 hours, and from Brussels it is much less than that. I maintain that any time I can remove airport queues and security screenings from a journey, it has to be a sensible decision.

So after coming back to my place to take a shower and get changed, I found myself on the train again heading back up to Marylebone. Talk about deja vu! It didn't matter to me though, because as we all know I love that neighbourhood. While I was waiting for the girls to meet me, I discovered another reason why I need to live there: Daunt Books. You must visit their online site by clicking here because the store (and the site) are fabulous - virtual tour included! The store features walls and walls of amazing travel books, biographies, as well as the usual works of fiction. I only called in because I wanted to read the blurb for the book they are currently advertising, West End Girls, by Barbara Tate. Needless to say I bought it, plus the re-released edition of Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade by Patrick Dennis; and the new Bill Bryson book, At Home. It's so crazy that I will hesitate and cogitate about the purchase of a pair of shoes or a dress, but will think nothing about spending cash on books. G.E.E.K. I know, I know.

With my wallet a little lighter, I met the girls for brunch at Cafe Luc on the Marylebone High Street. It calls itself a Modern European Brasserie, but whatever - the eggs benedict and mimosa that I had sorted me out perfectly. It certainly gave me enough energy to face the afternoon ahead, that's for sure!

The girls and I walked down to Oxford Street, past the boutiques and cafes that I love (and I think K can now see why this neighbourhood appeals to me). Oxford Street was a whole different story, however. It was a real case of "elbows out" just so that we could navigate our way through the gorgeous shops - designers like Ted Baker and Karen Millen. If money were no object I could have seriously done some damage in those stores; their autumn/winter collections are so gorgeous.

We gave up on retail and sat down at a cafe to catch our breath (aided by a couple of cocktails each, naturally). It was getting close to dinner time, so we tried to think of where we might like to eat. [Are you getting the theme of the day? Eating/Drinking/Shopping? Perfect for a sunny Saturday, no?]

We caught the Tube to Canteen on the Southbank, by Waterloo Station. We got there just as the pre-theatre crowds were clearing out, so we didn't have to line up or else squeeze on to the end of long dining tables (these are characteristic of the low-key vibe of the restaurant). Canteen specialises in British cuisine, so the menu has pies, fish & chips, Eton mess, and the like. I enjoyed bangers & mash for my main meal and then split a dessert with Kate - we chose the Eton mess (a mashed up pavlova, minus the fruit but with jam drizzled over the top of it).

It was a long day out but we did a lot of things and it was great to just wander, without any tourist agenda, and visit brand new places with K&C. It's a shame that they both leave London this afternoon but what a send off we had.

Making friends with a four-legged fiend

Late last week and then again last night I looked after Gus, who belongs to one of my colleagues. I stayed at her place both times and the pooch and I got along famously. Gus is a nine-year old Jack Russell who came over to London with his owners about three years ago and he has made himself quite at home.

Gus lives in Marylebone, which I discovered is pronounced "Marla-bone", not "Mary-lee-bone" or "Marl-bun" (as I had first thought). Marylebone is my kind of neighbourhood: expensive; exclusive; and totally adorable. The High Street is home to some fabulous restaurants, coffee shops and boutiques that I've seen around the city. I don't think I could afford to live in Marylebone of course, but I love spending time up there.

Last night was a bit of a mess though, because Gus was very restless and woke me up 4 times in the night so he could bark and chase burglars (all of whom fortunately turned out to be invisible). Obviously I did not sleep very well and woke up early this morning feeling quite cranky, but what can you do?

I took Gus on a really lovely walk through the Paddington Street Gardens (his usual haunt). Google tells me that these Gardens used to be the burial ground for the nearby St Marylebone Church, which is a little creepy but also secretly awesome. Though they are public spaces, the Gardens nevertheless remind me of the residents-only spot that Julia Roberts & Hugh Grant break into in "Notting Hill". I think it's because the Gardens are tucked away off the hustle & bustle of the High Street and you'd hardly know they were there. I suspect that most people in search of green spaces would likely head for nearby Regent's Park, so smaller parks like the Paddington Street Gardens are really for those "in the know" (like Gus).

Aside from getting to know another London neighbourhood, the good thing about looking after Gus is that I have been able to get my 'puppy love' fix. I have been missing Annie-Bot terribly and so it has been great to spend some time with another four-legged fiend again. I know that throwing a slobbery ball and picking up steaming poo is all part and parcel of dog ownership, but I could totally give those bits a miss!

Road trippin' with Tom & Katie

This past weekend I enjoyed a fantastic road trip with K, who was visiting from NYC. Truth be told, K has more friends in London than I do, but we decided to spend the first few days together on a road trip up north to visit two of her friends back from her high school days in France, J and L.

I have been friends with K for 15 years and throughout our friendship, K has told me all about her English friends, J&L who she met during her high school years in France. Indeed most of K's French high school stories are punctuated with laughs shared with J&L and antics revolving around J&L, to the point where in my mind at least, J&L almost become one wonderful person, whose influence and friendship still means so much to K today. The fact that J&L have recently had baby boys within just a few weeks of each other means it was a perfect time to visit them.

I went out to Heathrow to meet K on Saturday morning and I must be turning into a giant basket case in my old age. All around me, families were reuniting. It was literally the opening & closing credits of "Love Actually" and of course I felt like bawling. I am lousy at airport goodbyes and now I discovered that airport greetings slay me just as much. Hopeless. Ultimately K came through the arrivals gate and I spared her my old-lady blubbering and instead, I took the route of a friendly hug and the purchase of a ultra-large, very strong coffee for my jet lagged friend.

K had hired a Ford Focus to transport us around on the weekend. She also made the last minute BRILLIANT decision to throw in a TomTom satellite navigation thingy to make absolutely sure we made it to our destinations - and back to London again. I gratefully accepted the role of Navigator (aka Chief TomTom Programmer).

Having successfully charged Tom with plotting our journey, K brought out her car ipod radio tuner thingy and I set about tuning us in to Amy Winehouse. My success in this regard was limited, but I blamed the poor radio reception on that stretch of the motorway. By the time we hit the more open roads, we had a clear sound and we were as cheerful as Thelma and Louise. Well, at the start of the movie anyway; you know, the bits up to that part where they shoot that guy and it all starts to go downhill. You know what I mean. Move on.

If you're interested, I can give you a full report of the "services" along the motorway - those delightful oases of truck stop coffee; lukewarm toasted sandwiches; and public toilets of varying cleanliness. We stopped at a couple of these places along the motorway, more to mess with Tom than anything else. By this stage I had changed Tom's voice to a rather debonair Englishman's accent. Every time we veered off the motorway into a "services" stop, Tom would gently scold us and then chide us more firmly, all in his delightful, dulcet tones. We loved it! Tom wasn't coping well with our disobedience and our constant deviation from his carefully-planned route. It was classic.

We spent Saturday night with L and her family in Manchester. We didn't see anything of the city itself but it was lovely to finally meet L, her partner and their adorable baby boy. We had a delicious meal and a great catchup before it was time for bed - for all of us. The next morning we all enjoyed a bit of a sleep in and then we were on the move again, heading south in the direction of J's house.

En route we decided Tom needed an extra challenge and we wanted him to navigate somewhere interesting that we could visit along the way. At this point I had to resort to old fashioned means and review the atlas I had brought along with us, and we decided to detour to Nottingham. K and I decided that we were more interested to see Sherwood Forest of course, but as that sits just north of the city of Nottingham itself, we figured we'd ask Tom to plot us there.

Nottingham is...well, it's easier to say what Nottingham is not. Nottingham is not busy, even on a Sunday. It is also not as full of Robin Hood paraphernalia as you might think (and as I had so dearly hoped it would be). Nottingham is also not a well signposted city and as such, Tom nearly found himself flung out the window as he insisted on taking us down one-way streets and parts of town torn apart by roadworks and dead ends. Though it did not occur to me at the time, perhaps Tom was punishing us for our earlier unscheduled motorway pit-stops....

In any case, we pulled into a public carpark and visited the Nottingham Castle, just to say we did something during our visit. Truth is, we would have visited Nottingham Castle, but for the fact that it no longer exists. Obviously this is something we found our after we had paid our 5GBP entry fee. No wonder the ticket booth girls were surprised when we wanted to buy tickets! The old mansion on the site of the former medieval castle is now a Museum and Art Gallery, currently showing a very small exhibition of movie props and a few costumes from Russell Crowe's Robin Hood movie. Continuing the poor signposting that had come to characterise Nottingham, the signs in the Museum pointed to nowhere in particular and Kate and I became very quickly lost and irritated by the whole experience. I bought some postcards in the gift shop, and we headed back to the car.

Declaring a truce with us, Tom navigated us off the motorway and through gorgeous little English villages and gave us safe passage to J's house in the small but very charming little village of Whitchurch, in Buckinghamshire. J and her husband have been steadily doing up their house over the past few years and it is truly stunning. Their other labour of love, their baby boy, is especially gorgeous and quite the little charmer, cheeky grin and all.

After our uneventful detour to Nottingham (which caused J's husband a great deal of amusement), we ate a delicious curry dinner and again, it was time for bed. The next morning, J's husband had to work but J took us out to lunch at The Betsey Wynne pub in nearby Swanbourne and then we drove to the picture-postcard town of Haddenham, with its gorgeous thatched cottages, cobbled streets, and a lovely pond with white ducks.

By the time we said our goodbyes to J, both of us were feeling pretty tired so K and I deferred to Tom to get us safely back to Heathrow. He did of course, just as the rain started to fall. I was relieved for that because I wouldn't have liked to be out on those motorways in drizzly weather.

Weekends, but especially those spent out of town, always recharge my batteries and even though today at work was busy and my in-tray was almost overflowing, I'm glad that K and I had the chance to get away, see her lovely friends, and explore a bit more of this pretty country.

It's not ridiculous when it's fabulous!

Last night I went to a girl’s night out organised by my boss’s wife (J). In the four years that she’s been in London, J has made some really lovely friends so I was happy to have been invited along to meet them.

We arranged to catch up at Crazy Bear restaurant & bar in the Fitzrovia neighbourhood – all new things for me. Naturally I walked in the wrong direction when I came out of the Tottenham Court Road station, but my trusty A-Z Guide saved the day – as it so often does. Once I was heading in the right direction, I found the restaurant without a problem.

Crazy Bear is one of those fancy-looking places that takes its fabulousness so seriously that it doesn’t even bother to advertise itself outside. You could so easily walk past it without even realising and perhaps that is the point. Maybe it’s a place only for patrons in the know? Fortunately last night I was one such patron and once I found the place and head inside, the décor is sleek and modern, offering its young & hip clientele some quirky footstool/ottoman chairs to sit on, some snug booths to hide in, and – best of all – dim lighting to add to the mystique. The wine list is great, the cocktails are strong and the yum cha are cheap and plentiful. No complaints on those fronts at all.

Hands down the craziest thing about Crazy Bear are the toilets. I’m serious! First of all, there is no signage on the toilet doors. In fact, there are no HANDLES on the toilet doors. You need to just feel your way along the wall, pushing it as you go, and hope that you get to the door. Then you hope (again) that you’ve pushed the door to the ladies – and not the alternative, as happened to me at least twice. If this isn’t anxiety-ridden enough, you go INSIDE the toilets and everything is dimly lit and mirrored. I ended up cross-eyed and totally confused. I couldn’t tell if the toilets were occupied; I couldn’t work out whether to push or pull the mirrored cubicle doors – it was like something out of Alice in Wonderland. With the job done, and time to wash your hands, the sink is some sort of temperamental sensor-driven, rainforest-inspired dribble of water that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. I was desperate to declare it all ridiculous, but I couldn’t – it was simply too fabulous for that.

I love places with character, don’t get me wrong. And Crazy Bear has character in spades. I certainly won’t be forgetting my visit any time soon. But perhaps there IS such a thing as too much fabulous?

All the world's a stage

Yesterday was one of the more hedonistic days I've had in London since arriving here about 10 weeks ago. I woke up feeling a little dusty, and so very tempted to stay in bed all day. I am so glad that I ignored that little voice because as it turned out, today was amazing.

Actually the word that most accurately captures my day today is overstimulating. I cannot adequately describe to you the excitement I felt getting off the train at London Bridge, walking along the River Thames towards Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.

I had bought myself tickets to see both parts of "Henry IV" and it was weird going into the productions not knowing a thing about them (beyond what I read in the program). We hadn't studied these plays at school or Uni, so I was flying a little blind. I did know that the famous character of Falstaff appears in these works, so I was really looking forward to meeting him.

The Globe is such an unusual building. The first thing I noticed is that the chairs are mostly wooden benches and not at all comfortable. For 1GBP you can rent a cushion to sit on, and that's precisely what I did. Because I bought my ticket at relatively short notice, my seat for Part 1 was all the way at the very top of the theatre, in what they call the "restricted view" seats. I'm not sure what I missed out on though, because I felt like I could see everything.

The ground-level area is where "the groundlings" hang out - tickets in that area are only about 5GBP but you have to stand for the whole production. I'd probably find it quite uncomfortable after a while and yet, there is something to be said for being right up against the stage, with all the actors playing right to you. Trouble with being a groundling is that when the rain starts, as it did at intermission today, you get drenched. The Globe is a round theatre with an open roof you see, so everyone in the audience is really exposed to the elements. Plus it's a little distracting when the onstage drama reaches fever pitch and a QANTAS jet bound for Heathrow rumbles overhead.

"Henry IV - Part 1" was fantastic; full of boundless energy and lots of laughs. The audience profile was so random too. Lots of grandparents, a couple of couples (!), and quite a few teenagers which threw me a little. But everyone seemed to enjoy themselves and I think we all agreed that Falstaff totally stole the show, as I'm sure he does every time.

With a two-hour break between productions, I wandered down the street to Tas Pide, a nearby Turkish restaurant that was offering inexpensive 2-course meals. I am still not a fan of eating alone but I didn't really have a choice and in any case, I enjoyed sitting still for a while in the warmth of a restaurant and pre-reading about "Henry IV - Part 2" while stuffing myself with red lentil soup and a spinach and mushroom pide pizza.

Returning to The Globe, I had a different seat for the second show. This time I was in what they call The Gentleman's Quarters, which basically just means box seats - with padded chairs, do you mind?! I was so excited because my view was so much better than it had been for Part 1 and the sky had cleared so I knew there wasn't likely to be any more rain. That said, the cold wind off the Thames rolled in so I rented a blanket for 3GBP and it turned out to be an absolute winner. I snuggled in and wrapped myself up, leaning onto the balcony and in no time at all, I was utterly absorbed in the production.

The content of Part 2 is much darker than Part 1 - it's mostly about the evils of getting old and having to surrender your control over things. It talks about what kind of legacy you'll leave to your loved ones and how it becomes important how you've treated people during your lifetime. Falstaff again stole the show and it's little wonder really. The part is terribly physical and relies so much on physical comedy, wit and wordplay. The actor playing Falstaff had the audience in the palm of his hand and with a raised eyebrow here, and a sly wink there, we were all in fits of laughter. Not bad for a play that was first performed around 1586, eh?

At the end of Part 2, I was still marveling at how talented the actors were to have remembered all of those lines so flawlessly - and before I knew it, we were filing out into the streets to begin the journey home.

In total today I spent 6 hours absorbed in all things Shakespeare and while I am a bit Bard-ed out at the moment, I wouldn't have done things any other way.

Cider Saturdays

Yesterday was one of those unexpected days; both in terms of the weather and the entertainment. Weather-wise the week itself had been quite annoying. We had grey skies, drizzly rain, but not so much cold so as a result, London had a tropical feel about it which did not seem to suit at all. Entertainment-wise, I had a really busy week at work, preparing for my first formal event that I'm hosting this coming Tuesday. I collapsed into bed on Friday night really quite exhausted, and wanting to sleep for 100 years.

Saturday rolls around, as it always does, and London residents were rewarded with clear blue skies, and no sign of the rain or humidity that had been dogging us earlier on. I too awoke to Saturday feeling bright, refreshed and ready to face the weekend.

I met up with LW at the Borough Market for an early breakfast. LW works across the hall from me and is still new to London too. I had been raving about the Markets and the delicious bubble breakfast I'd had a few weeks before so LW agreed to come with me and see what all the fuss was about. Fortunately the bacon, cheese and bubble breakfast got a big gold star from both of us. LW's family is also back in Australia and we toasted her Dad's birthday with a half-pint of medium English cider, which I'd never had before but I really enjoyed. I hope LW's Dad appreciated that we were toasting him at 10.05 on a Saturday morning but that goes to show it's never too early for London cider, right? We wandered around the market stalls and tried a bunch of free samples. My favourites were the traditional Turkish delight (took me right back to the spice markets in Istanbul); and the 'Ubriaco' (drunk) cheese, from the Veneto region in Italy and is actually fermented in red wine. The flavour of the wine really does influence the cheese and it was delicious, if not a little intense.

LW volunteered to help me find the Bramah Museum of Tea & Coffee, which is somewhere I have wanted to go for weeks and can never find. I know the place exists, because there are street signs for it, and websites for it (even though the latter has not been updated in a while). Sadly even with LW's help, I came up empty. We followed the street signs as directed, but we must have walked past it or something, because we found nothing.

Well it's not entirely true that we found nothing. We ended up wandering down to the Embankment, looking out over the Thames and along the riverfront precinct leading up to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. I'm spending much of my day there today, so I'll write about that separately, but it was fun to actually be up there and looking at the signs for all the upcoming productions. The authentic mood was kinda shattered for me when a woman playing a lute, in full Shakespearean garb rollerbladed past us. Yes, you read that right. I guess it takes all kinds!

LW and I bonded over our love for Bridget Jones as we walked across the pedestrian-only Millennium Bridge, with the imposing dome of St Paul's Cathedral up ahead. We stuck our head in the Church, but neither of us was particularly inspired to pay the admission fee to look around properly. There wasn't even an old lady on the steps charging tuppance a bag to feed the birds, so we left! Wandering up Fleet Street in the direction of our office, I've never seen so few people around. Normally you can barely move, what with all the lawyers and office workers shuffling past you. LW and I enjoyed the reprieve from all that and just sauntered up the street and along The Strand which again, was eerily deserted.

We called into a pub fixture on that street called The Coal Hole. I'd been there before for work drinks and there's nothing fancy about the pub, it's just been around for a long time (since the early 1830s) and it has retained its English 'pubbiness', for want of a better description. LW and I knew we were in the right place when the first people we encountered at the pub were Oompah Loompahs. In full regalia, orange face paint and green wigs and all, these guys took authenticity to a whole new extreme. Sadly they did not join in when LW tried to show me the Oompah Loompah dance. I don't think they saw her actually but it would have been amazing if they did. Patrons were taking photos of the Oompah Loompahs, but we didn't actually talk to them so I've no idea why there were dressed that way. They didn't stay too long though, and neither did we really - just long enough to enjoy some ice-cold ciders, and we were on our way.

We rounded the corner onto Villiers Street in the direction of the Charing Cross Station, and I asked LW if she would come with me to the oldest wine bar in London. We descended the skinny, rather dodgy (but obviously original condition) stairs down into the depths of Gordon's Wine Bar. The atmosphere is quite creepy - middle of the day, but you're literally in an underground grotto so the whole place is lit with candles that lend an air of magic to the mood. The flirty French bartender sorted us out with some pinot noir, with the most generous pour I've yet had in this fair city. The delicious wine paired beautifully with the grilled steak sandwiches that we enjoyed - fresh from the outdoor BBQ in the courtyard. I swear this wine bar had everything but I have to confess, it's rather unsettling being in such a dark, mysterious place when you know that at street level, the sun is shining brightly.

From there the day is probably best not described in detail. It involves going to an evil bar by Waterloo Station called Hole in the Wall, which is about as pleasant as its name suggests. We then caught the train out to my neighbourhood and had a counter dinner in a pub where poor LW kept getting interrupted by some toothless man who I think had taken quite a shine to her. Actually he kept interrupting me about LW, presumably because he was too shy to talk to her himself. Classic. Where were the Oompah Loompahs when we needed them?!

Parting ways at the bus stop across the road from the pub, I went to the supermarket and reflected on what a great day out that I'd had. We'd done some exploring, some walking around, and a lot of drinking in pubs, but it was a great day. I thought it was a really promising start to a lovely long weekend.

Kenny Rogers and the art of conversation

On a cloudy autumn’s eve, in a lift bound for her house

Gab squished in with her neighbour, and she began to speak.

Some comments on the weather, and the clouds that looked like leaking.

And then she started rambling, and flushed a deep rose pink.

The businessman looked ashen, he knew he was a captive

In a tin can with a lunatic, who couldn’t zip her lip.

So he nodded with politeness, but didn’t answer her back,

Instead he made her feel like she was on an acid trip.

She doesn’t know when to hold it, know when to fold it

Know when to cut the crap, know when to cease.

She could tell that her neighbour was losing will to live,

And praying for the lift to stop so he could be released.

(Repeat until the memory fades)

Train trippin'

Every now and again I am seized by a truly geeky idea and I must follow through on it. Case in point today, I decided to take a train trip to Sandwich. To eat a sandwich.

Yeah okay fine, it's totally dumb but I never said it was a great idea; I just said it would be geeky. And I never expected that the sandwiches in Sandwich would be any better than you could buy elsewhere. I just thought that the idea of eating a sandwich IN Sandwich had a geeky poetry about it. I was all over it.

Sandwich is a little town in Kent, a little over 2 hours train ride from central London. My train left from Waterloo East station at 9.15am and I was almost immediately thrown into chaos by the train messages that suggested the train would soon be splitting in half. The conductor explained that the front 4 carriages of the train were destined for Ramsgate (the stop after Sandwich and therefore where I needed to be), but the rear 4 carriages were going to Canterbury. I walked backwards and forwards down the aisle for a few minutes, muttering to myself and trying to work out which carriage I was in, much less where I was supposed to be! Ridiculous. When I finally worked everything out, I sat down to watch the English countryside whoosh past.

Just over two relaxing hours later, the train pulled into Sandwich and I was so excited. Again, I think this is the geek in me coming out. Sandwich is a medieval town and I really love those. To me, medieval towns imply draughty churches, cobbled streets and interesting architecture. But they also mean ancient, barnacled residents who have never left the place where their ancestry can be traced back to Norman times. What's not to love about that sort of community? In these respects, Sandwich did not disappoint.

Indeed the tourist literature tells me that in its day, Sandwich was a busy fishing and trading centre. Along with Hastings, Romney, Hythe and Dover, Sandwich rounded out what was known as the Cinque Ports (cinque being French for five but in an interesting snub to the French, cinque is pronounced "sink" in Sandwich). These five towns were England's first line of defence against attacks from the sea and as major port cities in their own rights, they effectively controlled the trade and commerce that was undertaken along the shipping channels in the area. Such was the strategic and commercial importance of Sandwich in particular that a number of royals visited and stayed in the town for some time over the years. Queen Elizabeth I encouraged Dutch families to settle in Sandwich, and their influence is still apparent in the town's architecture today.

I took a one-hour boat trip on the Sandwich River Bus to putter along the River Stour. The weather was pretty rotten to be honest, but I only had to share the boat with one lady and her grandson, so I was willing to put up with a bit of rain. Unfortunately there is not much of the town visible from the River, so really all I got to see on the boat cruise were some old barges, the stinky marshes and some scrawny ducks. But it was a relaxing way to spend an hour, and I got a good feel for the town's geography but at the same time, I didn't have to worry about navigating so that was good for me. After the boat cruise, I visited St Mary's Church (1 of 4 churches in the town) and it was pleasantly draughty, ancient and in desperate need of restoration. The Guild Hall was similarly charming - a tiny museum that captures the history of Sandwich from its Roman roots to the present day. Well worth the 1GBP admission price.

One thing that did surprise me about Sandwich was the traffic. I couldn't believe a) how much traffic there was, and b) how fast motorists hooned around the tiny cobbled, one-way streets. I wanted to take photographs of some of the architecture but I was so worried about being knocked over that I didn't bother. Fortunately by virtue of its medieval-ness, Sandwich used to be a walled/fortified city. The remnants of the wall still exist and so I spent a lovely hour or so just wandering around the old city perimeter that has been beautifully landscaped to encourage walkers and cyclists alike to make good use of the paths.

I stopped in at a small pub on the waterfront, and honored my pledge of eating a sandwich in Sandwich. How disappointed I was that the pub did not offer any fancy sandwiches or even lay claim to serving the best sandwiches in Sandwich. They were literally just run-of-the-mill, garden-variety, buy-it-anywhere kind of sandwiches. So in protest, I ate half a sandwich and then ordered fish and chips instead, which were much more satisfying.

On the journey back to London, I must have slept for the first hour or so. When I woke up, we were still deep in the English countryside and I loved just sitting back and watching the fields and farmhouses pass by. Before I knew it though, the landscape changed and we were coming back to the real world where the traffic is chaotic, the people are merciless, and the sandwiches taste pretty much the same.

Happy Whatever

Today is my birthday and quite frankly, I’m totally ambivalent about it. At first I thought this disinterest might stem from the fact that I’m not at home to celebrate with my family and friends. Then I realised that I’m no stranger to birthdays in absentia, so being alone is not at the heart of it. More likely I’m just irritated about the very idea of getting older and in this respect, I know I’m definitely not alone.

When I opened this blog post, I fully intended writing something potentially meaningful about my hopes and dreams for this, my 33rd year on this earth. I seriously thought about sharing with you my reflections on getting older and (hopefully) wiser. Then I realised all of that was complete tosh and I totally couldn’t be bothered. You can thank me later.

Let’s instead spend our time much more fruitfully by wishing a happy birthday to the late Patrick Swayze, who would have turned 58 today. Happy Birthday, Johnny Castle. You never put Baby in a corner and for that (and for your topless scenes and especially the lift at the end of the movie), I know you’re still dancing dirty at the Sheldrake in the sky.

Even in the rafters, it's good theatre

Late last week, on a bit of a whim, I bought a ticket to see La Bete but when I slid out of bed this morning, I have to confess I wasn't feeling up to it. Like most things though, the effort of going along was totally worth it - the play was great.

I took my seat in the third to last row of the theatre, hovering rather precariously in the balcony seats, desperately trying not too lean too far forward. The usher had informed me that the play would be performed without an interval, so I amused myself wondering how my poor little sparrow bladder was likely to cope. Such was the disinterest I was still feeling before the house lights dimmed.

"Allo, my name is Jerome", said a voice in the semi-darkness. Turning to my right, there he was - the perfect French export. Well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-accented. Gay of course, but his all round fabulousness was immediately obvious. And as always happens when I am confronted with situations like this, I immediately forgot how to speak French, and proceeded to babble about boring crap to poor Jerome, who indulged my ramblings in a manner that can only be described as decidedly un-French. Turns out Jerome is a businessman in town for a visit to London, and he's spending the week here going to as many plays and musicals as he can. I loved him. The lights dimmed, Jerome wished me a good show (as if I was the principal actor!), and we were on our way.

It was immediately obvious to me that I had done zero research into this production, save for knowing that the cast included David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Frasier) and the ever-wonderful Joanna Lumley (Patsy from AbFab). Going into the show, I thought the play was a staging of a French classic, which of course it is not - thankfully I did not mention that to Jerome earlier (phew!). For the first 15 minutes of the production, only 1 character speaks. This is the fool Valere, who is played by the amazing Mark Rylance (sadly I've never seen him in anything before, which is entirely my loss, I assure you). Valere delivers a rambling, completely nonsensical but at the same time brilliant monologue that had all the audience cringing, then laughing, and then cringing again. Up and down it went, but the audience followed along because we were all on the edge of our seats in awe of his great talent for comedy. When Joanna Lumley ultimately comes in to the production, she too commands the stage and kicks the production into a whole new gear. The supporting cast are fantastic too and the plot moves at a really quick pace. My bladder didn't even notice that we didn't get a toilet break - THAT'S how good it was.

I lost sight of Jerome when the house lights went up and the crowd rushed for the exits. Good thing is that if I decided to find him again, he's going to see Dreamboats and Petticoats tomorrow night. Naturally.

Face to face with Britain's best

After one too many ales on Friday night, I had a rather slothful Saturday. I did the laundry and some light grocery shopping, but admittedly I did not venture too far from the couch. It was nice to be under voluntary house arrest yesterday but I was determined to get out and about today.

I set off very early from home and headed for Bloomsbury, with the intention of spending the day at the British Museum. That plan was thwarted at the last minute by construction mayhem on the Tube, so I gave up and hung out at Trafalgar Square. As I emerged from the Charing Cross station, I could hear the bells of St Martin-in-the-Fields church, pealing to signal the end of the Eucharist service. The bells rang and rang (and rang). But there was something lovely about that incessant noise as I sat outside at the coffee shop next door, with nowhere in particular to be. It was also lovely to see Trafalgar Square before the crowds arrived - peaceful and calm, as I've never seen it before.

Sitting just behind Trafalgar Square is the National Portrait Gallery, and I spent a happy few hours dawdling in and out of the numerous galleries. It is quite unsettling to see portrait after portrait, and I swear that some of the subjects were staring right back at me, following me with their beady little eyes. I started the gallery visit with the Tudors and I confess, I love their puffy collars and heavily beaded outfits (and that's just the guys!). But then I discovered the Queen Victoria gallery and that quickly became my favourite. The romantic in me still loves to see portraits of Victoria and Albert, who were so very much in love. Sadly the portraits manage to make them look completely bored, but I still love them anyway.

Slowly but surely the gallery filled with tourists and so I escaped. I walked a fair bit after that, aimlessly wandering and trying to think whether there was anything in particular that I wanted to see. I ended up at the Royal Horseguards and found the Household Cavalry Museum next to it, but I got grouchy at the prospect of paying 6GBP to tour something that I didn't really care about, so I left. I got stuck in pedestrian traffic out the front of Downing Street, when most people were either taking photographs of the doorway to Number 10 (fascinating footage), or they were staring at the sky, gaping open-mouthed like goldfish at a helicopter that was circling above. Had these people not seen a helicopter before?! By this time I wanted to hurl myself over the traffic barrier and cut around everybody, but I was worried that the guards would taser me, so I shuffled along with the masses and thought very uncharitable thoughts about everyone.

Walking on past Parliament Square, in the vicinity of Westminster Abbey, Big Ben tolled midday and I could hardly believe how quickly the day was passing. Tourists were everywhere, making the most of the weekend weather. I kept walking up to Victoria Station, and wandered in and out of some cute shops that I discovered along the way. Having resisted retail therapy, I caught the train back to my hood and called in to the Jamie Oliver shop for a restorative (and authentic) flat white coffee, and to eavesdrop on the risotto cooking class that was underway.

Did not take any photos today, despite having the camera in my bag all the time. It just occurred to me that I didn't even go into the National Gallery gift shop either - so very unlike me! Gotta lift my game in those departments, I think...

A Prom, but no corsage required

The BBC Proms (or more accurately, The Henry Wood Promenade Concerts) turn 116 this year and I went along to tonight's performance of Prom 32 at Royal Albert Hall, marking my very first Prom and my first visit to the gorgeous and historic arts venue.

I couldn't believe the great seat I had. On the plan the 2nd Tier looks like a real nose-bleeder, but in reality I was front and centre. I was raised up to be sure, but perfectly so: elevated above the heads of the audience, while being far enough back from the orchestra to fully appreciate its beautiful sound. Tier 2 are the baby box seats, with only four chairs in each. My ticket was for a front row seat, so the only thing in front of me was a plush velvet barrier on which I could lean my Proms program booklet. From where I sat, as the orchestra played, they swayed in time with the music and looked to me like giant kelp in the ocean. Weird, but true.

The line-up for this Proms season is really diverse, and the performance I saw tonight was by the European Youth Orchestra. They played Fantasy Overture 'Romeo and Juliet' by Tchaikovsky; Taras Bulba by Janacek (whose name has a bunch of accents that this computer won't let me draw); and they closed with Berlioz's Harold in Italy. I wasn't familiar with all the pieces, but parts of them I know I have heard before. I didn't hum along, don't worry.

Far and away the best parts of the performance were provided by the cymballists/cymbalologists/percussionists. I just couldn't take my eyes off them. At certain points, as the music built to a beautiful crescendo, I just knew the cymbals were going to crash and sure enough, the percussionist banged them together with gusto, and I was so happy. At times he clattered a couple of teensy little cymbals that hardly contributed any noise, which was disappointing. Finally he traded up to the big ones again and clanged away for all his might; it was fantastic.

The Royal Albert Hall has a wonderful concert program lined up for the rest of this calendar year, and I pinched a bunch of brochures from the foyer. I am really keen to see the screening of Lord of the Rings at the end of next month, as the London Philharmonic Orchestra will play the score live (any takers?!). I'm also interested in a couple of awesome Christmas events too, but funnily enough I couldn't bring myself to take the Michael Bolton flyer. Duh.

A lovely day for a BBQ

There was not a chop, sausage or hamburger in sight. But then again, this was no ordinary BBQ. Today was the Al Fresco BBQ Demonstration hosted by Jun Tanaka, Executive Chef at "Pearl" restaurant in the Renaissance London Chancery Court Hotel, a five-star property in the Marriott family of hotels.

The afternoon BBQ event was held in the Hotel's gorgeous cobbled courtyard and as if by magic, the sun shone the entire time. The weather, and the complimentary glass of champagne on arrival, got us off to a cracking start. Jun was first introduced by the restaurant manager, who is an Australian guy who warmed up the small crowd of about 40 guests with some jokes about this being the first time he's ever attended a BBQ at a 5-star hotel, but also the first time he's ever attended a BBQ in a suit! Laughter all round, everyone was in good spirits, and then Chef took the stage.

To break the ice a bit, Jun started his demonstration by joking about the BBQs that he's been to in his time, and all the typical sausage/hamburger combos he's had to eat. Phew, this is a man of the people; and obviously no stranger to the usual backyard barbie. But as he talked through the menu for the day, it was immediately clear that this was event was unlike any BBQ the rest of us had ever experienced.

The dishes we watched Jun prepare included lamb, rabbit, guinea fowl (beer can guinea fowl if you don't mind); salt bream; herb-smoked monkfish; couscous salad; green peas and broad beans on the BBQ; and even two desserts - marinated pineapple with a coconut dipping sauce; and berries with peaches and peach schnapps. Yum-mo! Recipes will be up on the restaurant's website from tomorrow, so you definitely need to check them out.

Not only did we get to watch Jun prepare everything, the best part of all was that afterwards we retired to some high tables nearby to actually taste small plates of each dish. I thought that at best, we would be tasting small bite-size portions of the dishes, but no...we basically got a tasting menu. Each dish was brought out separately on fine china plates with proper silver cutlery and all. It was all very civilised, plentiful, delicious and totally worth the 30GBP ticket price!

I went along to the event with a girl from work and Jun came over afterwards to introduce himself to us. I am more convinced than ever that I need to be friends with him, because he is cute, smart and desperately talented. Plus he's so darn friendly, it's just a perfect combination. I didn't ask Jun any cooking-related questions, because I didn't want to seem star-struck. Nor did I have my photo taken with him, even though I really wanted to and I had brought my camera with me just for that reason. Ugh, whatever. Play it cool, lady, play it cool.

I know it's not the last time I'll see Jun because I've decided that if this al fresco taster was any insight into Chef's talent, I'm definitely going to have to save my pennies and visit "Pearl" for a gorgeous full-sized restaurant meal. It's only a matter of time.

Visiting the home of King Henry VIII

Having spent the last few weekends lurking around central London and my immediate neighbourhood, I was in the mood to branch out a bit today. I decided to take the train to Hampton Court and tour through Hampton Court Palace. I also thought I might do a bit of a leisurely walk around the outskirts of the property (following a trail of about 5 miles or something), but when I set off from home this morning the weather was looking ominous so I figured I’d just play it all by ear.

I bought a coffee at the station in an effort to wake myself up but thanks to a rather ill-fitting lid, I slopped a sizeable amount of the liquid gold straight down the front of me. By then I was wide awake and fortunately wearing a black tshirt so the evidence of my clumsiness was not immediately obvious. Unfortunately I started wondering how long it would be before I started to smell like sour milk. Fabulous. On the upside though, I caught the right train and at this point in my tourist experience, that counts for a lot.

Disembarking at Hampton Court, finding the Palace itself could not have been easier. Observing the well-marked street signs, I led a relatively small contingent of fellow tourists across a bridge (over the Thames), and turned right into the Palace’s main entrance.

At the risk of sounding like a guide book, it probably helps to give a bit of background commentary on the Palace at this point, so here we go. The grounds of Hampton Court Palace used to be farmland, way back as far as 1338. The earliest parts of the Palace were constructed around 1494 when one of King Henry VIII’s courtiers leased the property. In 1514, Thomas Wolsey acquired the Palace. He was of humble birth, but rose to become a dominant figure in the church and politics of the period. He became Henry VIII’s administrator and cardinal, and was therefore greatly influential and wealthy. Wolsey moved into the Palace and started building extra rooms to accommodate the throngs of foreign dignitaries that his position required him to entertain. The Tudor façade of Hampton Court Palace is evidence of this building work. Wolsey formally presented Hampton Court to the King in 1525 but he stayed on and kept up the building work. When Wolsey was unsuccessful in his bid to have Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon annulled, the King banished Wolsey from Hampton Court forever. The King then set about to remove all the Wolsey-isms from the property (including coats of arms etc) and replaced them with his own insignias. Hampton Court was then home to Henry VIII, his revolving door of wives, and his son Edward VI. Since then, many monarchs have spent time at the Palace, though very few lived there for longer than a few months at a time. King William III and his wife Queen Mary II lived at the property and contracted celebrated architect Sir Christopher Wren to make substantial additions to the Palace. To this day, you can easily see where the Tudor section of the Palace ends and the Baroque section begins. All the same, it doesn’t look tacky – it all just seems to fit together as a sign of the times. By the end of the 1700s, the Palace was empty of Royal inhabitants and for the next 200 years, the site was opened to public tours (restricted viewing), while private apartments were occupied by well-to-do ladies (mostly widows) who were friends of the Royal Family. Now, the Palace receives an estimated 450,000 guests per year – even on rainy days like today!

The first area that modern visitors see when they get to the Palace is called Base Court. It is the central courtyard from which you can access all the major parts of the Tudor palace. They have even reinstated the 16^th century wine fountain, which actually flows with real wine on weekends and Bank Holidays. Because of the pouring rain and my own bad attitude towards other tourists, I didn’t get to sample any fountain wine today. Another time, maybe.

The good thing about Hampton Court palace is that with your admission ticket, you receive a free audio guide that tells you all about the major rooms in the Palace, including:

• Henry VIII’s Apartments;
• Henry VIII’s Kitchens;
• Young Henry VIII’s Story;
• Mantegna’s Triumphs of Caesar;
• William III’s Apartments;
• Mary II’s Apartments; and
• The Georgian Private Apartments.

In addition to the audio guide, on weekends there are actors at the Palace who recreate the wedding of King Henry VIII and his sixth and final wife, Kateryn Parr. From 11am to 4.30pm, tourists can basically stalk the actors as they move through the Palace providing commentary on key activities during the celebration day. This sort of entertainment is usually provided for the benefit of children of course, so I wasn’t too eager to follow the troupe. That said, my audio guide commentary was interrupted on a number of occasions by actors and stalkers bursting into the room I was occupying and launching into the next act of their pantomime. Needless to say, when that happened I took my cue and made a hasty exit, stage left.

The excellent audio guide comprehensively covers the interior of the Palace but it does not provide commentary on the 60 acres of exterior Palace grounds. This hardly matters because the grounds are very extensive, well sign-posted and are easy to navigate on your own. The map that the guides give you is easy enough for even a knucklehead like me to read!

By the time I got out to the Gardens, the weather was turning pretty rotten. In retrospect I probably should have toured the grounds first and then retreated indoors to tour the Palace. Oh well, hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

During the summertime, Hampton Court Palace has horse carriage rides and I decided that it would be a fun diversion. So I paid my fare, piled onto the carriage and was immediately adopted by an Indonesian family who happily took photos and chatted to each other over the voice of the tour guide who was trying desperately to share with us all the weird and wonderful sights of the Palace gardens. I didn’t mind not being able to hear her because I was just happy to be out of the rain, but still seeing the sights. We saw the grounds that King Henry VIII used to hunt in, and where deer and rabbits and foxes can still be found. We passed 200-year old yew trees that have been shaped to look like umbrellas (very a propos for today’s climatic conditions, I felt). And we could see into the Privy Garden, which has been restored to how it would have looked in King William III’s day, and was used as the monarch’s private retreat area, even though it is now swarming with tourists.

Having enjoyed the carriage ride, and noticing that the weather had somewhat improved, I set off on foot. I walked to The Great Vine, an amazing mass of grape vines, planted in 1768. The vines are still producing fruit and the vines are even in the Guinness Book of Records! Pretty amazing stuff. Staying outside, I skirted around the back of the Palace and to King Henry VIII’s indoor tennis court, which looks as you would expect. Even today members of the Royal Tennis Club are allowed to practice on the court (and two guys were there doing exactly that, but they were old, slow, and stopping to chat every 2 seconds so I couldn’t be bothered hanging around to watch them).

I was going to see the famous Hampton Court hedge maze, but the clouds were greying rapidly. As I had no intention of actually doing the maze itself, I figured I probably didn’t really need to see it. Instead, I retreated into The Tiltyard Café and settled in with my lunch at an outdoor table, under the protection of a gigantic umbrella. There I remained for probably an hour or so, watching silly tourists run back and forth under the English summer rain.

Finishing my lunch, I became one of those silly tourists that I had earlier derided and made a mad dash for the souvenir shop, in the pouring rain, before legging it to the train station.

From the safety of my apartment, I looked back over the photos I took today, to relive the enormity of the Hampton Court Palace. The site is truly impressive in size and it has been lovingly restored to give people an insight into the characters that built it and lived there.

You can view some of my Hampton Court photos by clicking here. Enjoy!

Gotta Push, Gotta Shove

Waterloo Station - Concourse Windsor Side
Originally uploaded by Tristan Appleby.

One of the first things I was told about Londoners is that they are, by and large, an aloof lot. I was warned not to expect any conversation on the Tube; in fact, eye contact is almost unheard of and if someone smiles at you, they are more than likely psychologically suspect.

Having come from Australia by way of the US, you can imagine how much of an adjustment all this has been. Don't get me wrong, I'm not likely to grin like the Cheshire Cat at complete strangers either, but I'm not averse to issuing a cordial 'good morning' or nod of acknowledgement here and there. That doesn't jive here, apparently.

From what I can already tell, the advice I received was pretty well spot-on. Londoners are notoriously private and enjoy a public transport commute free from interruption or interaction. But once they hit the train platform, Londoners have absolutely no trouble invading each other's personal space and pushing and shoving to get where they need to go.

Being vertically challenged as I am, I bear the brunt of this physicality quite often. In my 8 weeks here, I've already had my share of stray elbows to the face and backpacks to the head, mostly inflicted at Waterloo Station (where all bets are off, and human civility ceases to exist). Don't wait for apologies because they will never come. A peak hour Waterloo Station commute is Darwinism in the flesh.

All that said, there are advantages to being my size. I may be small but these days I've learned to be deceptively quick on my feet and can bob and weave with ease. Come to think of it, perhaps that is the REAL reason people advised me to wear ballet flats every day. It has less to do with navigating the uneven cobbled streets and more to do with just staying alive?! Food for thought really.