Overawed by the National Gallery, I flee to Garfunkels, yet another English chain - with free wi-fi of course. I got the daily special - chicken carbonara - and Czech beer.
I gaze out at Trafalgar Square with its buses, cabs, people, cyclists, delivery vans and flash cars. You rarely see an average car in the city centre. The congestion tax means only the wealthy can afford to drive into Central London. Walk down any of Central London's satellite suburbs - Paddington or Notting Hill for example - and behold the Porsche Carreras, Mercedes, Rolls Royces and throw your arms up with glee when you spot a Nissan Pulsar hatch.
I use the wi-fi to look up John Polidori, author the first vampire story in English, physician to Lord Byron, lover of Mary Shelley (who only returned his love for a week). There's a plaque commemorating him in Great Putney Street, less than 20 minutes away. Trusty Google Maps points me to where he was born and died.
The quadruple-story tenement stretched the whole street, although he would've only occupied a whole goddam room. I take a couple of photos, imagining him emerging from the front door, hands in pockets, head downcast, off to the gambling den laden with debt.
I later walk by a memorial to his onetime employer - a shopfront respectfully entitled "Byron - Proper Hamburgers".
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