Day 13 - Random strolling

My peregrinations take me to St James and I walk by the chuch where William Blake was baptised. A few minutes later I stop in my tracks, staring at the formidable memorial to the Duke of York. He doesn't look the least bit lonely, despite being on a 40 metre high pedestal where it must be a darn sight colder. The Duke of York was also known as the Duke of Debt for owing more than 2 million pounds on his death.

Crossing a wide and long boulevard known as The Mall, I reach St James Park. 

 
 



A mulled wine provides the perfect accompaniment for making further inroads into the language of ducks. These, like all other ducks I've met, are more than pleased to have their photo taken for posterity.

Even more eager to be snapped (and to receive bread crumbs from the woman trailing me) are the Greylag Geese of St James. The Gulls and the Moorhens and the Great Tits and the Coots all join the feeding frenzy, and I narrowly miss getting sconed on the noggin by a desperate pigeon coming in to land.

A squirrel emerges to forage for some nuts. He takes them in his little hands and nibbles like a child. Adorable pest! For that's what they are, I'm told.
     
And what is that building ahead when I exit St James Park?

Day 12 - A Quiet Evening

In the evening I'm lucky to have arranged dinner with a former colleague from my days at a legal publisher in Sydney. Lianne emigrated to London five years ago, and her Australian accent has completely disappeared!

We meet at Fulham Broadway and go for Indian - Masala Zone the place is called and it's one of a chain. Apparently the curries are best in the East End (and specifically in Brick Lane) but I'm not disappointed by the Grand Thalis we order. Neither of us can finish our meals, but our taste buds get a good work out - four curries, chutney, bhajis, raita and naan. Mmmmm!

Now Lianne warns me that living in London is not the same as being a tourist in London. But she's happy here. She likes being able to see a play whenever she wants, just as I'd like to hang out at The British Museum whenever I want, walk along the Thames whenever I want, go to The British Library whenever I want ... or see a play whenever I want.

London is not cheap. Australian media likes to claim Sydney has the second highest rents (behind Hong Kong) in the world. Nonsense. Sydney is well behind London, New York, Paris and Rome. In Sydney "rent stress" is when at least a third of your income goes to rent. In London, half your income going to rent is normal. But it's London. A vibrant, bustling, historic city. I love Sydney for the weather, the sport, the beaches, the bush, the people. I love London for the culture, the pubs, the architecture, the surrounding villages, the people. Sure, when I lived in Canberra getting out of bed for work at minus two degrees was difficult. Sometimes I didn't get out of bed. But that's Canberra.

After dinner Lianne shows me Stamford Bridge stadium. Should I go for Chelsea?

We grab a couple of pints of cider at a nearby bar. She let's me know that it's unacceptable to drink "halves". I wouldn't do this if I'm "having a drink" but sometimes, especially during the day, I like to duck in and have a quickie. I'll think twice before doing this. Note the British Government recently amended its drinking advice, clarifying what one standard drink is, and recommending drinkers have two non-alcoholic days a year .. I mean a week.

Day 12 - A Quiet Day

My idea of a quiet day is to set out with no intentions, and preferably not visit any museums. After getting a random bus I find myself in the vicinity of The British Library. A little peek would do no harm, wouldn't it? 

The keeper at Highgate had expressed his distaste for the architecture of The British Library, calling it a let down compared to Britain's other great architectural triumphs. However, I beg to differ - the geometric brick conundrum that is The British Library is as it should be .. you are drawn into its vaults and modern spaces as might an ant seeking the sugary archives in a well tendered ant farm.

The first thing that draws me is a ghost story exhibition, prominently featuring Dickens. Charles Dickens drew upon the supernatural in many of his stories (A Christmas Carol being the most famous example), but forever remained a sceptic, going so far as to enter into debates with ghost societies of the day. There are some hilarious posters in the exhibition advertising shows exploiting the ghost mania that gripped Victorian England. The Victorians were very fond of ouija boards, seances and contacting the after life through mediums. Dickens was fascinated by the supernatural but remained ambivalent to its existence. However, this didn't stop him writing many an eerie tale.

What was to be a quiet day rapidly intensifies when I enter the Sir John Ritblat Gallery - rooms that house one of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks, a first folio of Shakespeare, manuscripts of Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart, a Gutenberg Bible and, of course, the Magna Carta. Beatles fans will swoon over original handwritten lyrics by the Fab Four. A couple of hours is spent feeding my mind in the Ritblat rooms before it can take no more - I grab some tea in the library cafe.

Day 11 - Mousetrap

While scribbling away  in a Ruislip bar at the end of town I receive a call from Odile, the daughter of the ex-wife of one of dad's friends. She's keen to meet up, and although her husband can't make it she promises to bring along one her crazy friends from the East End as a substitute.

We're to meet at Leicester Square. When we get there it's absolutely packed! Admittedly, it is a Friday night, but I can't think of any place in Sydney where this many people cram together just to meet someone. People who don't know each other find each other these days with the trusty mobile phone, waving wildly until you spot another person on a phone waving wildly back - this worked for us.

Odile teaches English as a second language. She was told I'm a knowledgeable man of letters and also an effeminate pianist, both which I quickly debunk. She admits that because I play piano she imagined me as effeminate, but I don't come across this way in person. This is great news!

Having earlier booked a ticket, I duck off to see a play, promising to meet Odile for another drink after. The Mousetrap, by Agatha Christie, is England's (and possibly the world's) longest running play and is still showing at St Martins Theatre. The playhouse is Edwardian in layout, with gallery, stalls and orchestra pit to sit the 'lower classes'. I chose a middle class ticket and get my money's worth! - good elevated seating in the centre, although I almost nod off to sleep in the first Act.

An espresso brings clarity of attention after the interval. Despite being distracted by the sleazy manoeuvers of a stocky man in front trying to pick up a blonde with her mother .. I enjoy the performance. The only weak point was one actor overplayed his part and gave the game away. We're told after the performance to hold the secret of the murders close to our heart, and this I'll do, although I'll say one thing .. look out for an overacting prime suspect.

Day 11 - Origins

As another London friend later told me, I put my Oyster card to good use in going to Ruislip, moderately distant from London at 15km north west. Although still part of 'The Underground' system, the journey is above ground and the train has a higher ceiling, more space and forward and backward facing seats. It's good to get out of London into the burbs. By staying in a city a week or two you give yourself time to explore, experience what it might be like to be local, and sense the subtle shifts in attitude between place.

My dad was born in Ruislip and he has given me the very address of the house where he first saw daylight. He grew up in Cornwall Rd in a house of moderate size - today you would be entrenched middle class to own this property. Dad's family were decidedly working class. If I move to London I'd be very happy to live in Ruislip's surrounds.

How does one describe the feeling of tracing one's roots? The passing of time weighs heavily and you get an idea that the dimensions of time and space are very different, contrary to what modern laws of physics proclaim. For here in this very house did my dad live, these were the paths he trod, perhaps gruffly with a bag full of homework, maybe flush with radiance after captaining his school rugby team to a hard fought win. 
The place is the same. The time - now - is very different.

The economy has hit London, and Ruislip, hard. In a clothing shop they're practically throwing stuff at me. I purchase a very spiff jacket that'll be good for Paris and some hipster green trousers. I'd pay at least double for these in Australia. It dawns on me that I'll have to mail stuff home to take advantage of the bargains on offer.

The owner, from Cyprus, has been here for 30 years, although I'm not sure if he's been managing the store that long. "Australia's the place to be," he says. "My son just headed over and he's loving it. Think twice about moving here. Times are hard."
"I will," I say without conviction. "And thanks for finding the green trousers. I can almost see myself as a hipster in these. Have you heard that term?"
"We did that in the 70s."

Day 10 - Back to Highgate

I'm glad to meet Don again. Over a couple of pre-dinner drinks he relates the entire history of London. Beginning from Roman times, through Saxon conquests and the Great Fire, London's rich tapestry is spread before me in digestible bites. I'm also intriguied to learn the Gatehouse Pub sits exactly the same height above sea level as does the top of St Paul's Cathedral. The pub, which supposedly has a seven hundred year history, has been used as a courtroom, tollhouse and theatre among other things.

Don and I retire to the bistro and the food is delicious. I order haddock fishcakes - the best fishcakes I've ever and probably ever will taste.

Conversation ranges from history, sport (what Australia's good at) and of course literature (what England's good at), although we only get to the end of the 19th century before it's almost past Don's bedtime - he has a longer trip home than me. Being mildly claustrophobic he prefers to take the bus (which takes a good deal longer than the Underground), so we flag a double decker that is disembarking just as we arrive at the stop. Don promises to get in touch when he visits Melbourne later this year.

Day 10 - Tate Modern

Off to the Tate Modern. I catch the "159 to Streatham". I'm not going to Streatham - according to a friend there's nothing there. I get a lot of good snaps from the top of the bus, including one of a busy bureaucrat near Big Ben who could be ducking out for lunch - and riding so fast that I only just snap him. Where do you think he's going?

My walk to the Tate Modern takes longer than anticipated - after strolling along the Thames for 15 minutes I discover I've been walking in the wrong direction. However I'm afforded magnificent views of Westminster Palace (Parliament has met here since the 13th century, although most of the original complex was destroyed by various fires). Is this one of architectural wonders of the world?

Forty minutes later the brick prism of my destination looms. With all the effort it takes me to reach it, and knowing it is regarded as one of the world's preeminent galleries, will it live up to its reputation?

I'm not disappointed. This is no mere tick off box for tourists. After entering the massive vaulted "lobby" I am confronted with a giant screen at its extremity. Various images from nature are displayed with several orbs superimposed. Do these orbs represent souls? Are they will-o'-the-wisps? Below me, (only about 25 metres below!) patrons sit and watch the changing images. The rest of the cavern is shrouded in darkness. The projection of images in confined - or in this case supermassive - spaces, is a preoccupation of postmodern installation art. The gallery is housed in a former power station, making the choice of place an artistic decision in itself.

But don't think grandiose imaginings set in a tranquil void where the self is locked in a paradox of peristasis is all you'll find here. Let your mind roam, ascend a few levels to dreamland. The works in this gallery base themselves on Freud's discoveries of the unconscious. Let your mind discourse with Dali's broken phone, see a late artistic tantrum by the once potent Picasso, explore the subtleties Joan Miro.

Budding artists will be inspired, especially if you're interested in spontaneous creation, automatic writing/drawing, dream symbolism, cubism, dada and dark desire.

For a more contemporary fix ascend the stairs further where the current exhibition takes energy as its theme. An American artist is filmed on a dodgy phone camera kicking a bucket around the streets at night - can your eyes handle it? An artist of Lebanese origin has collected objects dear to survivors of the Lebanese Civil War, and interviewed these survivors to establish just why these objects - a radio, a photo, for example - are so precious. I particularly liked the polyester staircase reminiscent of Schroder's effect by a Chinese artist - the installion delicately hanging from the ceiling.

I wanted to linger longer although the intensity is fatiguing even with the espresso I downed half an hour earlier. Besides, I have an appointment with one of Highgate Cemetery's Gatekeepers!

Day 9 - My Beautiful Laundress

Time for housework .. off to the laundromat. A darkly handsome Hungarian woman in her mid-thirties runs a place a couple of blocks from the hotel. Her round eyes stare at me from her little windowed "office" at the rear. Her demeanour is surly and unwelcoming. I look uneasily around at the rows of machines then head to the change machine to procure meself some golden pounds.

The washerwoman enters the room, subjecting me to suspicious scrutiny as I struggle to work out what to do. Her supervision makes me nervous. She's wearing a black duffle coat with a fur-lined collar, black leggings and black uggboots with fur fringes at the top.

I open a machine and am about to load it when she says: "I doubt you'll need the big machine." I swivel on my heels 180 degrees to the bank of smaller machines and take in the controls. I don't have a pilot's license.

"I have done this before," I say, my voice quivering, "at home."
She watches.
I get some detergent from the soap dispenser and pause at the receptacles above the washers.
"Now you put a little in the prewash and the rest in here."
I do as she says.
"They're colours. You want warm wash don't you.  Turn this knob."
I do as she says.
"Close the door and push this button."
I attempt to close the door three times, not realising it appears slightly ajar when tightly shut. The button finally pushed, the clothes start spinning. I pop myself on a bench by the window and read The Big Issue, British version.

The Hungarian laundress has popped out for two cigarettes since I arrived and she goes out for another. A squat muscular guy with tattooed arms approaches her, who stands perched above him on the steps. He is a type that makes intellectuals feel a little inadequate - and he freely starts chatting with her. About what, I have no idea as the door is closed. He also lights a cigarette. They talk for about five minutes, and, rather petulantly on my part, I wish I could talk to her for that long.

I transfer my clothes to the dryer. Half an hour should be all they need according to my laundmistress. I do as she says and insert enough coins for 30 minutes. A coffee is in order. I drink half of it at the cafe and buy some rollies, hoping if I have a puff outside she'll join me.

Dear reader, do not suppose I wanted to take the woman to the nearest F1 motel, or even see her again. The traveller's thirst for conversation cannot be quenched (unless it is with obnoxious Australian tourists from Brisbane). My thirst for intercourse (dear reader, do not suppose I mean intercourse of the sexual variety) cannot be satiated, travelling or not.
My cigarette finished, I re-enter the house of washing. Taking my place opposite the tumbling accoutrements, I fell into a daydream. I am awoken five minutes later by the laundress suggestively crouching in front of me, placing the affairs of a private client in the dryer beneath mine. Then she turns to me and half smiles, half sighs.

I venture, "I thought it'd be busier today, being the weekend."
She immediately agrees and sits opposite. "Last weekend was very busy. I was running around all day. Where is everyone?"
"This is very rich area," I observe.
"All sorts come here. Businessmen, trades people. Some of them are rude too. They expect me to be always happy and chirpy. But I can't always be, you know, 'hey how are you, nice day'. I can't be like this always if I don't feel like it."
"I completely agree. I've only been here just over a week and've noticed the customer service isn't always chirpy. And I've come to accept that already."
She smiles briefly. "A lot of English are miserable, especially in winter. There is no light, it is cloudy and cold." She hugs herself. "I don't always want to be here. I ran my own business in Holland, but my husband wanted to come here."
"He is English then?"
"Mm."
"How long have you been here?"
"Eleven years. Too long. I wish to be surrounded by sunshine all the year round."
"Why not move to Brisbane?"
"My husband wants to be here."
We look at each other for awhile. Am I the first to turn away, or is she?
"Looking forward to the weekend?"
"I don't get a weekend. I worked twelve hours yesterday."
I gasp with disbelief.
"But I like it. I'm always doing something. I like to be moving. People think, because I work here, I am stupid. I speak seven languages."
"Impressive. I'm always amazed at Europeans. I only speak English and a tiny bit of French - not enough to have a decent conversation. You could be a translator."
"I know, but I haven't sat the certifications."
"You could work online."
"I don't like offices. I get bored and stuffy."
"Why not get a laptop and work in cafes?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm happy here."
We look at each other again half smiling.
"But I've got a bad back. The other day .. this made me miserable. A lady came in and said, why are you so rude. Why are you not happy? I told her I had a bad back and can't be happy all the time. Her look of defiance is immediately followed by a warm laugh.
My clothes had done spinning so I put them in my plastic bag. "Hopefully I'll see you next week."
She gets up. "If I'm still here."

                                              * * *

A few days later I stroll past the laundromat at 8pm. The squat muscular tattooed man is again talking to her. He has his arms on her hips and looks at up her with half innocent, half persuasive eyes. A couple of stairs above, she smokes and looks vacantly into the distance.

Day 8 - Keats' House

Less clutter bedecks the house of Keats and his bedfellows than Freud's. Perhaps the sparcity of Keats' rooms reflects a more English austerity of temperance, maybe all the clutter was in his mind .. or maybe the museum simply can't afford more stuff, or doesn't want to overburden the viewer. I suspect the conglomeration of objects at Freud's were outward manifestions of repressed urges.

The residence of Keats, his friends, and his lover Fanny Brawne, was more conducive to peace of mind than the Freudian emporium. Fanny's and Keats' houses now adjoin. Here he composed "On the Eve of St Agnes" and wooed his next door girl .. a famous affair that was never fully "realised" because of his tuberculosis.

I reflect over the flowery life of the young romantic poet. I'm a particularly big fan of his epic Endymion - and who can resist "That still unravished bride of quietness" .. the memorable Ode on a Grecian Urn .. also with love incomplete - "Though thou hast not thy bliss, forever wilt thou love and she be fair."

I meet my second Mike of the journey at a Hampstead corner pub. The winter is positively mild according to him. Snow was on the streets last year. He says I've got nothing to fear being a five a day smoker - he's a fifty fag a day lad! Nevertheless, my daily limit is increased to six - I've a burning need for oral gratification after Freud's house and Keats' consumption.

Day 8 - The Freud Museum

Saturday finds me back at Hampstead Heath to visit the houses of Sigmund Freud and John Keats. As Freud doesn't rise until twelve, I have a frappe in a Camden cafe.

The double story dwelling where Freud spent the last year of his life after fleeing Vienna is a humble brick affair. However, he brought his impressive collection of antiquities comprising Egyptian miniatures, Buddhist statuettes, Babylonian figures and more. The house he occupied in Vienna before being harassed by the Nazis is empty of Freud's possessions. 

In Sigmund's study is the rug covered chaise-long on which his patients reclined and unraveled their subconscious tapestries. The "Wolf Man" underwent psychoanalysis on that very couch. He was dubbed the Wolf Man not because he beared any resemblance to Michael J Fox, but because he dreamed of wolves in trees, and painted the dreams.

Freud's daughter, Anna, spent the rest of her life here, receiving numerous accolades for her work on child psychology. I buy a pen as a souvenir, and a big book of Jewish jokes for my father.

Day 7 - Rest in peace

A tad worn out from sightseeing, artifacts, high art, high architecture and warm pubs, a rest day is declared. After breakfast in the basement dining room I snooze intermittently from 9 to 11. Children chatter outside and thump up and down the stairs. I was like that as a young teenager. A couple of knocks alert me to the cleaner. I advise her I'm having a doze and she says she'll return tomorrow. 

Down Praed Street is an internet parlour. You step down a steel spiral staircase into the digital dungeon and tap away. I book an evening tour - a London Ghost Tour - and make my way to the meeting point outside the Langdon Pub at 7pm.

A squat grizzly man on a crutch accosts the clientele standing stiffly awaiting the guide. "You here for the ghost tour?" he asks a couple. He asks me the same and I avoid eye contact. "The guide is a ghost!" he points to a man in coat tails marking off the roll. "Where's he gone?" Indeed the guide has briefly vanished, probably to the toilet inside the pub. "Are you scared of ghosts?" he asks a little blonde girl. Her mother watches warily. He approaches the guide. "I've been on 35 of your tours, haven't I." The guide half looks at him. "I'm not coming tonight, but I'll make sure I'm on the next one." He hobbles around the corner and down an alleyway.

"Welcome everyone," the guide grandly proclaims, clasping his hands together. "Who believes in ghosts?" Almost everyone raises their hands. "And who doesn't believe in ghosts?" One or two people raise their hands half-heartedly. I didn't get a chance to raise my hand, not having an opinion one way or the other.

We patter after the guide to an old graveyard - so old that even the graveyard is buried. A major bank now occupies the site. I imagine the Greyfriars would find this rather unamusing. A woman is said to haunt this yard (why are so many ghosts women?) We would be allowed to enter but it is currently locked. The authorities don't want the Occupy London protesters at St Paul's Cathedral to camp here. Our next destination is St Bartholomew's Hospital. Of course there are going to be restless hospital spirits, especially if they didn't have death insurance. The lift that lowers the bodies of the deceased is said to occasionally operate of its own accord. As the guide relates this freak of physics he peers into the distance, as if spotting a foul shade that hasn't booked its place on the tour.

We tiptoe past the only public monument recognising Henry VIII, his fat thighs astride a round arch - his gatehouse. Close by is Smithfield. It was here, our guide tells us, that Mel Gibson was executed. He doesn't say why, but I assume it's for being a talented brat, as opposed to William Wallace, who was a brave gallant.

In the Priory Church of St Bartholomew we are all given a big scare, when, in the middle of describing the misfortunes of a rake - hung, drawn ... and quartered - our guide goes ... "BOO", stamping his feet for good effect. I bet that you too, reader, found that last sentence scary.

Our final resting place is the Barbican Tower and adjutting wall, built by the Romans around 259AD. During the blitz on London in World War Two the wall failed to live up to its reputation as a defensive structure and received a pummeling. If you stare long enough or take enough photos, a face will appear in the bricks. Having announced this, a thousand flashes go off. I could not tell whether the ghost of the Barbican Wall was smiling, frowning, or asking for directions back to Rome.

Day 6 - Vicky and Bertie

Down the road is the Victoria and Albert Museum. Was under the impression this was a crusty collection of teacups and petticoats. In hindsight, perhaps The British Museum Jr could be an alternative name. I browse the collection of Islamic art. The geometric motifs are abstract and pleasingly intricate. Early works portray the love of wine and love of love before Islamic art shied away from the depiction of human figures.

The cabinets of Moghul India are also worth a peek. Here the cultures of the middle-east and far-east met under the enlightened rule of emperors such as Akbar and Nur Jahan.

I also peruse a large wing dedicated to garden sculpture, very much in vogue in England in the 18th and 19th centuries, when classical form and the myths of antiquity were revived. Norse gods frown at busts of eminent Englishmen, flighty Aphrodite flirts across the room with philanthropist and quack doctor Joshua Ward, while an aged and bearded Dionysus reflects on the wonders of sobriety.

I'm already exhausted from my ramble through the Natural History Museum, so call it a day and save the rest of the V&A for another time, or another life.

Day 6 - Natural history

The Natural History Museum is a supreme monument to Victorian architecture, arguably outstripping the British Museum, the National Gallery and Buckingham Palace in its grandeur, breadth and vision.

Inside the vaulted hall humans stare at mammoths in alcoves and eyeball the dinosaur skeleton who stretches across the gallery about to pounce on naughty children. Looking up the stairs you can see a man sitting on a marble chair, oblivious to everyone around him. He is marble too. It's a statue of Charles Darwin, moved to the Central Hall as part of the bicentenary celebrations of his birth.

To the right is the origin of our species in the form of a series of placards detailing the development of hominids and their interaction and relationship with primates past and present. Reminds me of a sophisticated school project - perhaps what we might have done in primary school had we been geniuses. There are many chains in the evolution of being that lead to homo sapiens, or knowledgeable man. Imagine a humanoid half our height, with half our brain, but with our curiosity and an uncanny likeness. Also explored is the similarity between man and ape. Chimpanzees share many structural features with us - we are more closely related with them than we are to orangutans (although I'm sure exceptions can be made).

In the Minerals Gallery every stone on this planet (and some not of this planet) has been catalogued and is on display. From agates to pirites, chalcites to opals, quartz to crystals, emeralds, diamonds, different coloured topaz, sapphire, feldspar. If I find someone to propose to, I'll buy her a ring encrusted with moonrock, or a meteorite with traces of Mars ..

The vault at the end of the hall houses priceless treasures - the Devonshire Emerald, the Latrobe Nugget and can you imagine diamonds from stardust?

But let us go and view the humpback whale, largest living creature, or watch the lemming frozen in his migration to oblivion. See that cobra skeleton - even Steven Seagal would be reduced to a writhing mass of atomic matter when clenched within its coil. I wander past The Cocoon, where Britain's precocious nerds .. I mean naturalists .. are hermetically sealed from the coughs of man, cars of man, and flatulence of man's politicians.

Just outside The Cocoon I sip some exotic Chinese tea sourced from the vale of Twinings. I ponder the crustaceous shells being scraped, the meteors being analysed for traces of extra-solar debris, and what genus of mustard Britain's Nerd in Chief had on his last turkey bagel.

Day 6 - To the museums

Judging by my map, I could get to the Kensington Museum precinct from Paddington with a half hour walk. It takes much longer than that, as I stroll through Hyde Park, pause at the old police house, and chatter with ducks on the Serpentine. 

A pair of ravens elude my attempt to successfully capture them - digitally.

The Serpentine flows fast. The morning has not yet escaped twilight. Solitary walkers in puff jackets, bench sitters on the Serpentine with hands in pockets, joggers dressed for the Arctic - these are just some of the early rising Hyde Park characters. The sight of joggers makes me want a cigarette, but I double bluff myself and restrain.

Towards the museum precinct I encounter a young woman and her son ogling a top range Ferrari with a UAE numberplate. I ask the lady if the car belongs to her son. She laughs - high pitched and nervously. 

"You could buy a house with that car." She laughs. The car launches from the roadside with a guttural purr like a judge about to deliver a routine corporate law decision.

We stroll down toward the museums. She's been a little short of fulsome conversation since moving here 11 months ago from Germany. She wanted to improve her English but has ended up working as a maid for a German family. I wouldn't have picked her as German. Her accent is good, her comprehension fine, her sentences sometimes askew but easily understood. She is over here with her "little one" who wears a snug beanie and cautiously looks right and left as we cross each road. He's leading the way. He points further down the street. At a junction he points again. They are off to the Science Museum.

Day 5 - Young and Restless

I decide to get the bus back because it's cheaper and gives a better view of London than the Underground. The top deck front seat is available. Perhaps this novelty wears off eventually.

Halfway into the trip I hear a London accent behind me (surprise surprise - but there are many accents in London; it's not uncommon to hear people talking French). Eager to put a face to the accent, I turn around briefly. When the lady has finished she apologises for talking too loudly.

"You weren't talking loudly at all. I confess I wanted to put a face to the voice.

 We talk for the rest of the trip, which is another half an hour for me. She's going all the way to Hammersmith because that's cheaper than taking the train. She is Nigerian in origin and was fostered in London. She's about my age and is a teacher at a school for disadvantaged children. By disadvantaged she means unruly kids or those with behavioural difficulties.

"A school for rebellious teenagers," I quip.
"Today I had to deal with a kid who just won't listen. He was expelled but his former school will take him back if he improves. I think he's getting bullied here. When I took him aside to calm him down he relentlessly banged his hand on the wall behind him, ignoring me, even though a class was going on in the next room."
I state the obvious. "He was seeking attention."

She wholeheartedly wants the very best for these boys. We agree a university education isn't the be all and end all. But they have to find something they're passionate about. A lot come from neighbourhoods where it's cool to not like school.

"No one likes school," I say.
"True, but we can make it bearable, even enlightening."
"Even if one or two kids find their path, that must be very rewarding for you."
"I don't want them to end up in jail. Or committing murder - like what happened on Oxford Street the other day outside the sales. Over some shoes."

She points out the sights as we cruise down Oxford Street, the places where I can get some bargains. Everything's a bargain for me with the Australian dollar so strong. She tells me if I live here I'll be on an English wage. 
 "But I think you'd thrive in London," she says.
We swap details and promise to keep in touch.

Day 5 - Archway

It's raining now, after an overcast day. I have walked to neighbouring Archway, which gets its name from the medieval gatehouse which used to perch on Highgate Hill. I scurry towards an Irish pub that's practically empty. Who starts drinking at 4:30pm on a weekday anyway?

A bellicose middle-aged man in a fedora is smoking in what I assume is the doorway.
"Is this the entrance to the pub?"
He brightens. "Yes." And lets me pass.

A scruffy patron is reading the racing section of the paper. He has total command of the only TV, switching it to the race of his choice and adjusting the volume when the commentary becomes too loud. How do the horses race in such weather? Some races don't even have a starting gate. The horses trot to the starting line, then at a signal, turn around and bolt.

It's a nice pub to escape the drizzle. Just before I leave the barmaid turns on the Christmas tree lights.

Day 5 - The Gatekeeper

On my way out I talk to the volunteer Gatekeeper on duty. His ticket booth is a three square by five square heated box where he sells the entry ticket and diverse postcards, most of them of Karl Marx.

The Gatekeeper is an amiable quintessential Englishman of the learned variety.

"Have you ever lived abroad?" I ask him.
"No, I'm just a little English boy."

He has just finished transcribing David Copperfield for stage. In a month it will debut in the theatre above the Gatehouse Pub. He gives me a broad synopsis of Dickens' monument of self-discovery, which I appreciate, having read it over ten years ago. He particularly focuses on the machinations of Steerforth, Copperfield's one time friend and fiend.

He asks many questions, such as have I been here long, what have I seen, have I been to the British Museum yet?

We briefly discuss the Stephen Lawrence trial. The Gatekeeper decides It would be just lovely for him to have an Australian friend. He hasn't a racist bone in his body, yet I would make a good addition to his menagerie of acquaintances, who already include a Pakistani and a Brit of Chinese origin. I am flattered to be invited to dinner at the Gatehouse and we make arrangements for Monday evening.

He then asks how long I've been here, what have I seen and have I been to The British Museum yet?

"No," I again reply.
"Well we'll just have to cancel your visa then."

Day 5 - Highgate Cemetery

My post lunch ambling turns me in the direction of Highgate Cemetery. Heading down a narrow curving lane, I poke my head into Waterlow Park, adjacent to the Cemetery. These grounds were formed from three estates and one of them happened to owned by the metaphysical and anti-establishment poet, Andrew Marvell.

People are playing tennis on derelict concrete courts with deflated balls, which explains why no Englishman has won at Wimbledon since 700AD.

Proceeding to Highgate Cemetery I peer through a gate on the western side. The western side is steeped in legend, with its monuments, crypts and grave robbers. It is only open in the summer unfortunately.
 
But in the eastern quarters I find the final resting place and monument to Karl Marx, bearded philosopher who pointedly changed the world. I assist two European girls in getting their photo taken atop Marx’s tomb and they return the favour. My socialist-leaning friends will be jealous that I, political cynic but not indifferent centrist, has stood athwart Marx. I look a little uncertain in the photo, as if old Karl’s bust is about to glare down and lecture me on dialectical materialism.

There are many other memorials to lives long and short. A man killed at the Somme – 20 years of age. A stillborn child who “flew straight to heaven”, his grave littered with toys never used. A muslim who struggled for himself and others, the writing on his stone says the struggle continues.















 



There are slabs inscribed with the names of three generations, and tombstones whose inscriptions have long since weathered away, now half reclaimed by moss.

On a bench I stare at the flowing branches. Perhaps a tear wells in my right eye for young Howard Smellie, who ceased to breath after 6 months of life. The tranquil moment ends with the arrival of a delivery truck for some residents opposite the cemetery.

Day 5 - Highgate Village

Exiting the heath at the Highgate end, I ascend the hill to Highgate Village. This charming hamlet has many beautiful, and expensive houses – some of the highest property prices in England are found here. Pierce Brosnan, Tariq Ali, Julian Barrett have all resided here, and some still do.

There is a church with a red door that looks like a rocket. I took some unsatisfactory photos of it and deleted them – only later do I find it is a significant shrine for pilgrims of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: poet, mystic, philosopher and opium eater.

I lunch at the Highgate Pantry at the summit of Highgate Village. The tea and chilli con carne warm my heart. I sit facing inward although I normally like a view of the street. For once I eat without reading a book or playing with my phone. There is no menu. The selection of pastries, sandwiches, salads, pastas and tasty treats changes with the seasons.

In this small and peaceful pantry tourists come to break their day and locals get their takeaway before idling back to their labors – be they real estate, carpentry, bookselling, craftwork or being a multi-millionaire.

Day 5 - Hampstead Heath

Today I determined to visit Hampstead and pay a visit to Keats' House. I had to change twice on the tube and got the Northern Line to Belsize Park - the stop just before Hampstead. I emerged from the Underground into a completely different part of London - the village outskirts only 5 miles from the city. The pace of life immediately felt less rushed.

A quick search on my phone in a wifi equipped café (I confess it was Starbucks) revealed that Keats' House was only open afternoons, Fridays to Sundays.

My trusty street directory showed other sights to see and I immediately took myself to epic Hampstead Heath. What wanderings and wonderings Keats surely had around these peaceful acres. A particularly favourite spot of his is now known as Keats' Chair.

 Where did his perambulations take him? Did he walk, head bowed, past crooked oaks with craggly claws? Did he talk to ducks and gaze and nightingales? Sketch swans? Did he survey the view to London with wide empty eyes, his soul devising lines for The Eve of St Agnes?

I must have walked five kilometres. The soles of my shoes were muddied and I was badly in need of a cuppa. Hampstead Heath is a must see. Many people walk their dogs here, jog the sandy paths, stroll through grassy fields and peer into forests of willow, cyprus and sleepy hollowed oaks.

Day 5 - A City's Conscience Awakes

Having only slept fitfully due to my mind being preoccupied with conscious and unconscious excitment, I rose before six. At seven I walked round the block. It was still dark, yet people were already waiting at bus stops, on their way to work.

I bought The Independent. The cover story, and at least ten other pages, told of the belated conviction of two of the killers of Stephen Lawrence, a teenager who had been murdered at a bus stop in a racially motivated stabbing 18 years ago. The pair convicted were from South East London and part of a working class gang that had included compulsory stabbing in its initiation ritual. They had been acquitted in 1998, but fresh forensic techniques put an end to the 800 year old principle of double jeopardy.

The conviction prompted much soul searching of an unacknowledged racism seeping through London's capillaries. You would never find the same self-reflection in Australia's media, despite Australia having similar, and arguably more intense, undercurrents of ill feeling towards immigrants.

The Australian media relentlessly dredges up the "refugee problem" - every second day it is front page news. The prominence of this issue is really a gauze thinly veiling a mistrust of anything that does not conform to the Australian fair dinkum digger.

When I mentioned Australia's obsession with border security to an Englishman, he laughed and said, "you don't have borders!"

The closure of the Lawrence case exposed endemic problems in the London Metropolitan Police. Racial vilification was rife in the form of stop and searches of black people; authorities were indifferent to race-related crimes.

Why were the killers of Lawrence not brought to justice earlier? None of the papers mentioned the fact that the father of one of the gang members was a major drug baron and could have been in cahoots with the cops.

Such searching self analysis will not be found in Australia for another 50 years. When accusations of discrimination are raised in the Australian media most commentators immediately go on the defensive. Some even go on the offensive, claiming aboriginals receive better treatment than mainstream Australians! One Australian broadsheet opinion writer has a particular obsession with middle-eastern immigrants.

Day 4 - The Homeward Crawl

I decide to walk home. My first stop is in Soho, at Shakespeare's Head. I down a half pint of Staropramen (another Czech beer) and soak up the atmosphere. It is already crowded even though it's only 4 o'clock and twilight has only just commenced its gloomy procession.

 A woman tries to fit her pram between a bar stool and some tables, a man leans forward and a young blonde listens semi-entralled, a family sit in the corner.

With my trusty street directory (kindly donated by my formerly English dad) I orient myself in the direction of Paddington. At first it looks like I've entered a bleak quarter, with only the wind for company. But soon I come across Marlyebone Road, then Marlyebone Pub. This place proves a watershed in my beer drinking history, for I order none other than a Fosters.

"You can't get this on tap in Australia," I tell him excitedly. "Is it worth getting a pint of?"
 "Not really."

I get a half.

Cool house is playing, there is one TV, attractive mahogany decor, and, or course, no pokies.

My attempt to talk to two young, mildly pretty English girls is met with a neutral reaction. Hearing the word "Australian" gave me an opening.

One of the girls intends to go to New Zealand. I agree that Australia is overrated. Forgive, my fellow Aussies - I was flush with the London experience.

Despite the bashful giggling of one of the girls and her particularly flirty hair shuffling and wrist flashing, I felt I wasn't welcome in the conversation so retreated back to my beer.

I was attracted to the next pub by its opulent exterior, and its proclaiming, "We serve real Thai food". I had already decided the evening's meal to be beer, so ordered a Kronenbourg, which, despite its bad reputation in Australia, was bloody good!

This pub - The Windsor Castle - is worth a visit. Figurines, photos and paraphernalia adorn the walls and sit inside cabinets. Everywhere were photos of the Queen, mugshots of Prince Charles, a painting of Churchill, someone who looked like Paul Hogan, and Mrs Ernest Simpson (whoever she is).

Two very attractive Costa Ricans were fortuitously sitting to my right. How do I know they were Costa Ricans? I asked one while her companion was powdering her nose.

Despite an initial blunder - hearing "Austrian" instead of "Costa Rican" and saying her country sounded like my country - the conversation went refreshingly well. She was staying in England for 11 months to improve her English. She had practised extensively before she left and it was already very good - much better than my French. Besides, she could have a conversation that lasted longer than three minutes. Her voice was laced with sonorous Spanish inflections - I would have been more than happy to tutor her in English and listen to those sultry tones recite the Song of Solomon.

Her equally glamorous friend returned and I received a couple of sweet goodbyes, despite not actively seeking them. I left several moments later, content with having broken the silence that sometimes descends on solitary travelers.

Day 4 - Flight to Garfunkels

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".

Day 4 - What is not revealed

I spent more than three hours at the National Gallery. It's overwhelming to say the least. What a privilege to have a room of Titians all to myself. What rapture to behold the Seurat that served as my desktop wall paper for over a year. Over there a Delacroix, its fiery splashes of turbulent times. And does that guide say about the famous Pissarro depicting Paris is the evening?

The three R's - Rembrandt, Rubens and Renoir, all have their own rooms, or at least their own walls, while Holbein's grand full length portrait of the English ambassadors proudly has a wall to itself. And what of Van Gogh, appreciated by artists but not by art lovers in his lifetime. Now he is appreciated by everyone. In the centre of his wall is Sunflowers. A mass of people conglomerate around this shimmering still life. I hover off to the side, content to view his chair, or the fields outside his asylum.

Where am I now? Is that Cezanne? And these pretty Degas with their elegant dancers, trapeze artists. He had a good time painting his subjects. And naughty Toulouse-Lautrec, preoccupied with fallen women. I am briefly inspired to  be preoccupied with fallen women myself, but admit that this just isn't me.

Turner's ships in stormy seas would make a super addition to any boy's living room, while sensuous Renaissance nudes would add flavour to any bedside. I study these voluptuous depictions of feminine sensuality, hand on chin, as if appreciating the angle of light, the suggestive glance, the fine brushwork on the buttocks, or, better yet, what is not revealed.

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.

Day 3 - Edgeware Road

Regaining the Dolphin at 6pm, I snooze until 10. I then walk around Paddington and up to Edgeware Road. This road was begun by the Romans in 47AD. Now it is home to a substantial Arab population, many who migrated here in the 1950s and 70s from Lebanon, Egypt, and Cyprus.

The street is still buzzing - many kafes, koffee shops and korner stores are doing a thriving trade. Many bearded - and unbearded - men smoke hookas in front of shopfronts that double as cafes and Lebanese eateries. Owners were concerned they'd go out of business after the passing of the anti-smoking laws that prevented smoking inside restaurants and bars. Evidently this is not the case. The scent of rose flavoured tobacco wafts down the street - this is hooka central.

Mobile phone dealers offer me cheap calls anywhere in the world. A couple of gypsies beg for money, their hands clasped together. "Please, please sir, some money, please," they beseech as they circle me. I quickly dispense with some more coins - probably about $AU3 worth. Their almost cringeworthy begging ceases and I hurry onward - with their blessings. I'm unsure whether I've done a good or bad thing.

I have a quick hot chocolate at Costas coffee chain, then saunter off to bed.

Day 3 - Conversation at St Paul's

I next followed the signs to great St Paul's. London is very kind to tourists. Why do a bus tour or a walking tour when you can just follow the bloody signs, or look at the many street maps?

It was too late in the evening to get value for money and look inside the Cathedral so I contented myself (for now) with vistas of its opulent exterior. Adjacent to its pillars and signature dome many tents were parked. 

This is where the Occupy London movement are camped. A guy named Mick is part of this movement, chiefly because he's lost his passport and has to save for a new one. He's from Cornwall. Apparently Cornwallians are a bit reserved (euphemism) - some of them never even leave Cornwall.

I replied that this sounds a lot like Penrithians in Australia, or even Gladesvellians. I asked him whether he thought Jeremy Clarkson was a  c*nt. He replied to the effect that yes, he most probably is, but could be excused on the grounds that this is just the way he is - he's probably a good bloke in person. I assume Clarkson would be quite nice to me as I'm of Sri Lankan origin - not Indian - those backward dirty people (subject of Clarksons latest tirade). I inform Mick that we have our very own Jeremy Clarkson: Kyle Sandilands. Mike then showed me some tricks he could do with three twirling sticks - twirl em to the left, to the right .. even juggle em - simultaneously! I reward his dexterity with £2 67p (the 67 pence being loose change I want to get rid of). He placed it in his beanie supplicatingly proffered before me. When he recommences his travels, I hope he spreads the word that Jeremy Clarkson is, indeed, a c*nt, but a good bloke if you know him.

Day 3 - Tower Bridge

Continental breakfast is included with my stay at the Dolphin. Sounds good huh? Basically, a Continental breakfast consists of a choice of cereals (cornflakes, rice bubbles, bran flakes, muesli .. or .. cornflakes). The waitresses continually shuffle between kitchen and dining room, placing pieces of white toast into a bread basket, which you can then lace with apricot or strawberry jam, or nutella if that’s what rocks your boat. There’s also a selection of teas and a coffee machine that spews forth a reasonable coffee à crème.

After breakfast I get the tube to Tower Hill Station to see the Tower Bridge. My first impression when alighting from the station is, however, a magnificent castle, which just happens to be the Tower of London, spouting its turrets, reveling in its battlements and jutting out its wings – but this can wait!

The Tower Bridge, completed late-19^th century, was meant to complement its more mature neighbour. For some reason I had imagined a 20 metre high modest and rather cute toy-like bridge, not the 50m-high monolith that proudly stands before me. This grand execution of gothic revival architecture looks imposing from whatever angle or distance you view it from.

The museum inside, housed in the upper walkways, discusses the merits of many of the world’s great bridges. The Harbour Bridge is mentioned, of course, being the longest wide span bridge in the world. A little Chinese bridge, almost 2000 years old, gets a mention for ingenuity.

Only 10 people died during construction of the Tower Bridge. Despite being built in the 1890s, the hydraulic, steam and gear mechanisms are a wonder to behold. I hadn’t the faintest idea how any of it worked, despite extensive explanations on the wall, until a father began explaining the pumping actions and pressure controls to his son.

Anyone interested in late-Victorian steampunk culture must visit this wonder and scrutinise its inner workings. I once had an engineering flatmate who said the way it used hydraulics, steam  and coal power, is remarkable. View the pumps and pressure chambers and see if you can work out what's going on.

After downing a mushroom and cream cheese bagel with Moroccan mint tea I head to the Monument – a great phallus with a gold tip, erected in honour, or should I say remembrance, of the Great Fire of 1666 and the rebuilding that followed it. The fire started in a bakery - this should be a lesson to anyone who burns toast at work. The fire brigades of the 17^th century were, however, impotent against the rage of that blaze.

Three pounds to mount the Monument seemed excessive, although quite a few people had braved the several hundred steps to peer at London atop its glimmering .. tip.

Day 3 - Paddington

I’m staying at the Dolphin for two weeks – a three star affair in Norfolk Square, Paddington. My room is cosy and serviceable. Small enough that when getting up from the bed I hit my head on the bathroom door handle.

First evening in London and I have a pint at the Sussex Arms – a fairly common pub (or bar) for London, which means it’s bloody better than most Sydney pubs. Three TV screens, no pokies. Sunderland are playing Man City. Someone just misses a goal and a man next to me assures everyone that even he could have got that – and I think everyone agrees.

I finish my pint of Bombardier and go for a walk. I end up at another pub. Are these pubs, or bars? The décor is much nicer than anything found in Sydney. Is this the case in all of London? I have a couple of pints of a Czech beer and read my guidebook – London Encounters – kindly given to me by my sis and brother-in-law.

A tall blonde bloke with darting brown eyes joins my table. He is waiting for his wife to finish at St Mary’s Hospital and is downs a couple of pints of shandy (so he can drink more) before meeting her. He has a British eccentricity about him, finishing all his statements with a twitch of the head, as if to say, “know what I mean?”

He nips out for a smoke of Old Holborn. His wife stopped smoking when she became pregnant, but he still likes a good extra mild shag. They’ve been married less than a year but had been together a long time before then.

Three pints and I’m a bit pissed. Worse, I’ve bought a black pack of Sovereign 10mg and they smoke real good. My latest effort to quit has lasted 48 hours.