I should've left the window open last night. Perhaps the heating was a little too cosy and my sleep a little too deep. The bags under my eyes are so pronounced I may as well have been Shannon Briggs after his slugging by Vitali Klitschko for the WBC.
I go to Lena's Cafe on Praed St and add another healthy looking photo to my collection of classy English breakfasts. Nothing beats a snag lying prostrate in baked beans, crispy bacon, egg yoke dripping into wholemeal toast, fried mushrooms and tomato ... and black pudding with its subtle bloody taste when you lick your lips.
Being Taurean I like to plan, I like things going according to plan. As I leave London tomorrow I want to know just how long it takes to walk from the hotel to the line that takes me to King's Cross Station. It's a good thing I do this, because the fastest line to King's Cross National Rail Terminal is a much further walk than the other Paddington lines.
After collecting tomorrow's train ticket I walk down to Piccadilly Circus for an Oxford St bus. I can't resist popping into an electronics store to suss out the latest gadgets. While clothes and beer are cheap in London, electronics cost about the same as in Australia.
From my vantage point atop the bus I watch the hustle and bustle on the street below. After pleasantly crawling the bus comes to a complete standstill at Marble Arch. For half an hour we are blocked by people protesting for Palestine, I think. But I'm not sure - all their placards are in Arabic.
I have Indian for dinner at a restaurant close to the hotel. As there are not many patrons, the two waiters practically stand in front of my table and watch me eat every mouthful! Luckily my biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley is absorbing, allowing me to forget the scrutiny of these two waiters, eager to report to the chef that of all things, my reaction to the papadums and chutneys was most favourable.
Rousing myself at 6:30, I walked round the block and bought a copy of the Times. I soon found out this is a Murdoch paper. However, it's much less sensational than Australia's Daily Telegraph, less hawkish than The Australian, and even occasionally funny. There were respectable commentaries on The Independent (the Australian never has a nice word to say about its rival), a portrayal of a Tory who'd put James Murdoch on the grill, and a story on the growing dangers of cosmetic surgery - male and female.
Apparently men are getting breast reductions these days. As my moobs are a bit puffy I'll have to look into this. Men can also get liposuction to reduce their backsides. I'll look into this too.
In stark contrast to yesterday I was the only one taking breakfast at 7:30 in the hotel. I paid the extra three quid for the English breakfast and was served two eggs, a rash of bacon, baked beans a la Warne, half a sausage, and a quarter fried tomato. I was soon to learn that this was English breakfast-lite.
It was my intention to go to the Tate Modern. I decide to get the bus. Besides being cheaper, London's double deckers offer a passing good view of the people, shop facades, and if you get the upper level front row seats, the streets ahead. The bus weaves its way down Oxford Street, Regent Street and other narrower byways, past Piccadilly Circus. These buses are not wimpy by any means.
There wasn't much to see unless you defogged the window - the couple in front of me tried tissues. Another couple diagonally across used The Times - much more effective.
My plan to visit the Tate Modern is discarded when we cross Trafalgar Square. The sight of King George the "what's his number", the lion, the Church of St Martin in the Fields, and, of course, the National Gallery, mean I alight at the very next stop.
