Well hello my patient reader, yes, I have returned from the mystical world of jet lag and am attempting to return to normal service. I know I am falling behind in my correspondence, but I am trying to conserve energy prior to returning to the land of Oz and work. Goodness knows how my idol Jane Austen managed to write all of those fascinating novels with her busy schedule - walking the grounds, writing letters, complaining about the servants, running from gypsies, supervising the lower classes - a very difficult world.
We arrived at 7am (London time) which meant that we lost 5 hours. That would be OK except it was sleep time. The British flight was in Premium Economy which was comfortable enough for the flight time, we could stretch out a little and try to sleep. And then Heathrow.
Heathrow
If I was a super hero then Heathrow would find some human manifestation and become my nemesis. Granted it lacks the paranoid psychosis of any American point of entry (I wasn't photographed twice, had my fingerprints taken or my eyes scanned), but getting through the border entry takes forever if you are an 'alien'. Rather than labour the point dear reader, I have cut a piece from a post I wrote in 2012 upon landing at Heathrow.
My thoughts then still apply today: "And then here is an interesting situation. As a republican I’ve always been amused when people tell me that Lizzy is our queen too. Well, I’d like to know what it gets us? As we rounded the corner into Border Protection hell, there were two lines: UK and EU passports holders and everyone else. Yes the UK line moved at almost twice the rate ours did. So, as an Australian I’m a member of a Commonwealth country and apparently the UK queen is my queen too. But when it comes to getting into the country, people who don’t belong to the Commonwealth, people who don’t even have that nice old nanna as their queen get to jump the queue and the breathe the free English air before me! It’s not cricket and it’s not fair. The sooner we ditch the Brits and their flag, the better off we’ll be as nation."
The only difference in 2015? They now have electronic passport processing, that I could not access.
We watched a bit more TV, cleared some email, contacted a few people on fb and poked each other to keep awake until it all became too much and we adjourned to bed.
Camden Markets
Although I did not sleep through until the morning dear reader, I was asleep when our first born thought it a good idea to skype us. Much rested, we felt we could face the grey of the day. To date, the sun has proven elusive.
Like the Waifs' song (the title of this post) we headed for Camden Markets, although we walked, no tube for us. On the way we stopped in at the Visitor Information Centre at Euston Station. I'm not sure it is aptly named as not a lot of information was supplied, not even maps of London, and I wondered if we were keeping the young woman behind the counter (let's call her number 4, that's her desk number) from something important, like learning to be polite and interested in her job, or washing her hair. She constantly tapped her pen on the desk top as she grudgingly answered Jayne's questions.
My favourite exchange went something like this:
J: I take it that this is a map of London, are we able to have one?
4: You can have one (slapping it down on the counter) but it won't help. If you want a map you'll have to go the shop over there and buy one. (tap tap tap)
Having just arrived from the land of politeness where everyone wants to help (for no benefit to themselves) this attitude came as a shock. We accepted the useless map graciously and departed for the markets.
The markets were everything Jayne had hoped the Brooklyn Flea Market would be (but weren't). However, for someone with the need to approach things like this in an organised fashion to ensure we missed nothing, they were a major challenge (stay with me Cait). There was no way our progress could be down one aisle and up the next, as the markets have expanded to fill all available space along the lock and through the stables and down the street. Still, I did my best to navigate our way through the stalls; no small task when guiding someone who is distracted by shiny things and on a mission to buy presents.
As expected there were a lot of stalls that sold the same stock, but there was some interesting fashions and lots of leather gear and T-shirts, a vast array of food stalls and all sorts of things in between. Cait would have been in raptures as well as abject poverty with all the retro clothing stalls.
There were some interesting sights at the markets. It's interesting to note that in Tokyo people dressed in, umm, interesting fashion look a bit quirky. In London they just look freaky - too many goths with shaved heads, girls, not guys, and more black make-up than Al Jolson would have used.
Food and Meandering
The walk back to the unit was uneventful and we ditched the shopping and went out again for something to eat. There is quite a deal of choice in this area and sometimes that is not a good thing. We settled for a cafe called Kua' Aina Goodge Street where the waitress (is it OK to use that term?), Sarah, was brave enough to listen to how we wanted a coffee and then to make it for us. Who'd have thought that a simple long black would pose such problems in two countries? Sarah succeeded where those in America failed and delivered two very delightful coffees which went well with our BLTs.
Then the quest for Thomas the Tank Engine merchandise began. I had located a supplier called Argos that I had assumed was a department store. Wrong. Multiple outlets, huge range, shop front only - purchase online and go to the counter to collect your goods - behind the counter is a warehouse. Quite amazing, no doubt it won't be long before we have something similar in Australia.
Back home again, for a brief rest and then off to another branch of Argos at Marble Bar to collect our other order that wasn't available at the closest store. If there was any doubt about the popularity of this concept it was dispelled as we joined the queue that ended just inside the door. Goods gathered, we struck out for home once again, taking in the sights as we went - oh, look, another bike shop (OK, it's not just Jayne that gets distracted).
We thought we might just grab a pizza for dinner and while there are many Italian restaurants in the area, the humble pizza seems to have been abandoned to 'fast food' style venues. That will be another challenge to surmount as the days dwindle.
Finally, we thought a traditional British meal of fish'n'chips would sustain us until the morrow. Gigs was the venue and came highly recommended on Trip Advisor. There was a variety of things on the menu, but, no, we wanted the traditional meal. Just as we were about to order, a table near us had their 'cod and chips' arrive, and the poor young girl's eyes bugged out, as did Jayne's - it was more a piece of whale than cod; it was huge. Bravely, we went through with our order. The chips were very good and the fish was fine, but you needed to remove the batter to be able to eat it all.
And then back home my dedicated reader and thank you for staying with me once again.
Heathrow
If I was a super hero then Heathrow would find some human manifestation and become my nemesis. Granted it lacks the paranoid psychosis of any American point of entry (I wasn't photographed twice, had my fingerprints taken or my eyes scanned), but getting through the border entry takes forever if you are an 'alien'. Rather than labour the point dear reader, I have cut a piece from a post I wrote in 2012 upon landing at Heathrow.
My thoughts then still apply today: "And then here is an interesting situation. As a republican I’ve always been amused when people tell me that Lizzy is our queen too. Well, I’d like to know what it gets us? As we rounded the corner into Border Protection hell, there were two lines: UK and EU passports holders and everyone else. Yes the UK line moved at almost twice the rate ours did. So, as an Australian I’m a member of a Commonwealth country and apparently the UK queen is my queen too. But when it comes to getting into the country, people who don’t belong to the Commonwealth, people who don’t even have that nice old nanna as their queen get to jump the queue and the breathe the free English air before me! It’s not cricket and it’s not fair. The sooner we ditch the Brits and their flag, the better off we’ll be as nation."
The only difference in 2015? They now have electronic passport processing, that I could not access.
That's the difficult bit - once you're through, the trauma is over because the actual customs checking has been totally non-existent on any occasion where we have been unable to avoid Heathrow; you're out in the world before you work out you have passed through "customs". Down to the tube and onto a train heading for Holborn station, down a flight of stairs, up two extraordinarily steep escalators and then into a cab to Fitzrovia.
Fitzrovia
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| Haven't had a drink here ... yet. |
Jean (our host) was waiting outside the unit block as we arrived and we went upstairs (well in the elevator) and were introduced to our home for the next 10 days and unpacked. In an attempt to stay awake we went for a walk around the neighbourhood and dropped into a pub for a light meal and a guinness or two while we watched the Pumas demolish the hapless Irish in the first half. Then it was back home to watch the remainder of the game.
Then it was time for another walk before the jetlag grabbed hold and we fell asleep. We returned home to watch the Wallabies play the Scots and it was not the sort of game during which you could drift off to sleep. As the Hoodoo Gurus once sang, "like wow, wipeout" - almost, the Aussies, despite their best efforts to lose, fell over the line in the last minute of the game ond won by a single point.
We watched a bit more TV, cleared some email, contacted a few people on fb and poked each other to keep awake until it all became too much and we adjourned to bed.
Camden Markets
Although I did not sleep through until the morning dear reader, I was asleep when our first born thought it a good idea to skype us. Much rested, we felt we could face the grey of the day. To date, the sun has proven elusive.
 |
| From above |
 |
| One of the less crowded aisles |
Like the Waifs' song (the title of this post) we headed for Camden Markets, although we walked, no tube for us. On the way we stopped in at the Visitor Information Centre at Euston Station. I'm not sure it is aptly named as not a lot of information was supplied, not even maps of London, and I wondered if we were keeping the young woman behind the counter (let's call her number 4, that's her desk number) from something important, like learning to be polite and interested in her job, or washing her hair. She constantly tapped her pen on the desk top as she grudgingly answered Jayne's questions.
 |
| Above the shopfronts in Camden |
My favourite exchange went something like this:
J: I take it that this is a map of London, are we able to have one?
4: You can have one (slapping it down on the counter) but it won't help. If you want a map you'll have to go the shop over there and buy one. (tap tap tap)
Having just arrived from the land of politeness where everyone wants to help (for no benefit to themselves) this attitude came as a shock. We accepted the useless map graciously and departed for the markets.
The markets were everything Jayne had hoped the Brooklyn Flea Market would be (but weren't). However, for someone with the need to approach things like this in an organised fashion to ensure we missed nothing, they were a major challenge (stay with me Cait). There was no way our progress could be down one aisle and up the next, as the markets have expanded to fill all available space along the lock and through the stables and down the street. Still, I did my best to navigate our way through the stalls; no small task when guiding someone who is distracted by shiny things and on a mission to buy presents.
As expected there were a lot of stalls that sold the same stock, but there was some interesting fashions and lots of leather gear and T-shirts, a vast array of food stalls and all sorts of things in between. Cait would have been in raptures as well as abject poverty with all the retro clothing stalls.
 |
| And the not-so-retro Cait |
There were some interesting sights at the markets. It's interesting to note that in Tokyo people dressed in, umm, interesting fashion look a bit quirky. In London they just look freaky - too many goths with shaved heads, girls, not guys, and more black make-up than Al Jolson would have used.
 |
| Random statues outside a building - guess they love cats |
The walk back to the unit was uneventful and we ditched the shopping and went out again for something to eat. There is quite a deal of choice in this area and sometimes that is not a good thing. We settled for a cafe called Kua' Aina Goodge Street where the waitress (is it OK to use that term?), Sarah, was brave enough to listen to how we wanted a coffee and then to make it for us. Who'd have thought that a simple long black would pose such problems in two countries? Sarah succeeded where those in America failed and delivered two very delightful coffees which went well with our BLTs.
Then the quest for Thomas the Tank Engine merchandise began. I had located a supplier called Argos that I had assumed was a department store. Wrong. Multiple outlets, huge range, shop front only - purchase online and go to the counter to collect your goods - behind the counter is a warehouse. Quite amazing, no doubt it won't be long before we have something similar in Australia.
Back home again, for a brief rest and then off to another branch of Argos at Marble Bar to collect our other order that wasn't available at the closest store. If there was any doubt about the popularity of this concept it was dispelled as we joined the queue that ended just inside the door. Goods gathered, we struck out for home once again, taking in the sights as we went - oh, look, another bike shop (OK, it's not just Jayne that gets distracted).
We thought we might just grab a pizza for dinner and while there are many Italian restaurants in the area, the humble pizza seems to have been abandoned to 'fast food' style venues. That will be another challenge to surmount as the days dwindle.
Finally, we thought a traditional British meal of fish'n'chips would sustain us until the morrow. Gigs was the venue and came highly recommended on Trip Advisor. There was a variety of things on the menu, but, no, we wanted the traditional meal. Just as we were about to order, a table near us had their 'cod and chips' arrive, and the poor young girl's eyes bugged out, as did Jayne's - it was more a piece of whale than cod; it was huge. Bravely, we went through with our order. The chips were very good and the fish was fine, but you needed to remove the batter to be able to eat it all.
And then back home my dedicated reader and thank you for staying with me once again.
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