Day 4 - Times for breakfast

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.