Sabbaticalette

Day 3 -- D'ye get wafers wif it?

What with one thing and another, didn't sleep well and woke up with hideous jet lag. Gloomy, cold day -- decided to blow off Kew Gardens. I mean, it's not like I'm going to be suffering from lack of gardens on this trip...

Wandered over to the British Museum in a fog, to see what they have on special exhibit. American prints from somebody to Pollock, meh. (Terrific looking exhibit on Hadrian not until July, alas.) Stumbled through some Mesopotamians -- lots of kids CSI'ing it up in the mummy section. I like how non-speculative their commentary is -- lots of focus on how objects were made, and how restored or conserved (fills in very nicely with my plane book, People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks -- which follows a book conservator investigating where a rare illustrated Haggadah has been -- by analyzing a wine stain, a cat hair, a moth wing.) Very easy to imagine people using the objects on display -- "oh, I remember the birthday I got that drinking horn," or "God, I can't wait to bury that sword in the village hoard, it's never worked right..." "Oh, look at Miss La-Di-Da in her faience beads..."

Head still snapping off shoulders with fatigue, so stumbled down to lovely cafe and spend an hour watching soul expand under influence of caffeine (see The Coffee Trader by David Liss portraying revolutionary moment of Europeans first tasting caffeinated beverages), along with peculiarly egg-salad-y tasting caesar salad.

Trundled off to Hampstead for Fenton House -- nice 17th century house and gardens, housing collection of early keyboard instruments -- at least one harpsichord, virginal or spinet per room. Chockablock with porcelain too -- would have given Susan's grandmother a seizure of delight just to walk through. Not much of a porcelain wallah myself -- but like the "dismal hounds" -- straight out of Deputy Dawg.

LOVE Psyche the Persian cat.

Do NOT LOVE this bit of nightmare fuel.

Chatty room steward followed me around. Suggested alternate route back to underground, past Georgian cottages and with visit to Hampstead Cemetery, where George and Gerald du Maurier are buried.

Forgot why they have lots of pictures of Dora Jordan -- bought Claire Tomlinson biography, Mrs. Jordan's Profession. (One of Dora's daughters by the Duke of Clarence [later King William IV] lived in Fenton House, so I guess why not?)

I did take the suggested alternate route -- very nice overgrown higgeldy piggledy graveyard -- only problem that needing to watch your feet means you have to stop to look around at interesting things. Who the hell are the Pearly King and Queen of Hampstead? Need the Internet! (Back home, the Internet nicely obliges -- this photo is labeled "Our Babs at St. Paul church digs." They are apparently genial working-class people unafraid of ridicule, who inherit the title -- and massively heavy pearl-button-encrusted clothing -- to raise money for various charitable causes.)

Got back to Bloomsbury safely -- assembled another cold collation from Sainsbury and had a little liedown before evening theatre. Streets very full, lots of smokers and young whippersnappers ready for a weekend's fun. (I have to say I was looking forward to a slower pace outside of the City, which I would leave the next day.) Tonight's entertainment (fanfare): Spamalot!

Which was fun and silly, as you'd expect. Theatre employees go around selling souvenir programmes and killer rabbits from panniers -- of course some wag popped up behind me, "D'ye get wafers wif it?"

Once impulse to say "Hey -- it didn't happen like that!" when they strayed from the exact plot of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" was stifled, I enjoyed myself enormously. (...Although why actors, who have perfectly funny lines feel compelled to also make funny faces when delivering those lines...) Had interval ice cream for the first time this trip, at ruinous cost. Trundled home and to bed -- gathering strength for tomorrow's ordeal, Re-Learning to Drive in Britain.

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