London Day 2: Lunch Bunch

A quick summary for those people visiting from Six Word Saturday who wonder what’s going on:

Birthday Treat – London! – I’m Giddy – We’refourpostsin

Okay, I may have cheated slightly there but, seriously, folks: who can describe the wonder that is London in only six words?

We finished looking at the Globe’s exhibition around 11:30 and headed up to the café for some lunch but it was all posh, inedible stuff (my sole complaint).  We decided to venture out for real food but passed the groundling queue…where two people were already queueing. That was it – we were not prepared to risk missing a good spot so we joined them.

The couple were sitting on the pavement, reading.  Spud and I sat on the pavement, quiet for a while, enjoying the novelty of numb bottoms on grubby streets (we might not eat posh but we are usually clean), watching the world go by (London is busy).  Spud, on my left side, was surprised to hear me sneeze and then say, ‘Bless you.  Thank you’ to myself.  He hadn’t realised the ‘Bless you’ came from the young woman sat on my right side.  That gave us all a laugh and broke the ice.

Our conversation was interrupted by lunch: Young Woman’s partner wandered off for a while and came back with pizzas; I thought that was a good idea and pulled out the exhausted credit card.  Pizza Express was just up the road.  The service was very good; the friendly staff included the genuine Italian manager who, in answer to my query, told me that the toilet was ‘upstairs; second bridge to the right.’  There was nothing wrong with his English, if that’s what you’re thinking; the upstairs was designed so diners could look down onto those eating below.

The pizza, alas; was dreadful: all tomato; no cheese.  It was fun to eat on the street, though I wouldn’t like it to become a habit (which could have become all too real a possibility if the Hub’s credit card and I had stayed in London for another couple of days).

The wait passed quite quickly.  It rained heavily for as much as thirty seconds.  By the time we had our raincoats on, it had stopped – and stayed away.

There were constant queries from passers-by about which end of the queue was the beginning.  It was confusing if you were new because the queue is between the steps to the outer yard and the exhibition centre.  

An American woman with three children stopped to ask if it was worth going to the play.  I told her, ‘Absolutely!  It’s great,’ despite not yet having seen this particular play, because I knew it absolutely would be great.  We explained the price of £5 for a yard ticket – there is no cheaper theatre ticket in London, according to our guide; and probably anywhere in Britain, according to me.  The woman and her children discussed the idea before heading off.  I heard her exclaim, ‘ere she walked out of sight, ‘We might as well try it; she says it’s great and she’s got a British accent.’

We all had a good laugh at that, and then I returned to my conversation with the Young Woman.  Something about London made me unashamedly nosy: ‘If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “what do you do?’

‘I’m a writer.’