Bill Nighy Kicked My Endorphins

The last of London, at last.  For you, that is; I would move there tomorrow.

Spud and I were turfed out of the Globe at five-thirty by a staff member who insisted that yes, we really did have to leave.  We had been there for eight hours; he felt it was time.

Spud and I sat on the steps next to the Thames while my legs recovered from standing for almost four hours (queue/play/interval).  We planned our next move.

We had three hours before our train left Euston and two determined people can do a lot in London in three hours.  Spud fancied the British Museum, which meant the Tube.  We headed off in that general direction but we passed a small alleyway and there, in all its historical glory – somewhat bizarrely squashed in between office block and restaurant in a channel about as wide as my old waist – was the Golden Hinde II.

The Hub had printed off information about local sights (and eateries; that man really looks after me) and TGHII was one of them so I had no compunction in bringing out his credit card again.  Actually, it only cost just over £12 for two, so it was pretty reasonable.  Spud made sure we got every penny’s worth.  He went over every inch of that ship and made me go with him (sometimes, I don’t like Spud much).  He had me on my knees to traverse the gun deck, because it has the lowest ceiling I’ve seen outside of a storm drain.  He made me go up ladders and down ladders, forwards, backwards – sideways at one point, I think.  or that may have been when I tried to sidle away.  Unsuccessfully.  That kid is strict.

It was incredible to think that the real Golden Hinde had sailed across seas and oceans and made it back to Blighty: it was tiny.   I’d like to have seen Sir Francis Drake’s ad in the Loot:

Wanted: Intrepide Sailors withe ye nerves of steele.  Shorte men only neede apply, laddie.  

Thate means ye, Hub, Ye scurvy doge withe an ungratefule wife.

The ship was rather sad.  Not in its history or size, but in how neglected it was: cardboard boxes and junk piled up at one end of the bottom deck; signs and portraits hanging askew; old information sheets that needed replacing.   I guess you get what you pay for.

We knew we wouldn’t have to pay to enter the British Museum; we gave the Hinde back to its careless owners and headed for the Tube.  One change at Elephant & Castle and we were at Piccadilly Circus.  I took a photo of Eros but he was smothered in tourists so I won’t share it here.  We could see Shaftesbury Avenue on one side and Regent Street on the other (strangely, no green houses or red hotels; that was a surprise) but we headed up (or down; I’m not sure – the map was side-on) Piccadilly towards the British Museum.

We walked for what seemed ages but the trip was enlivened by Spud’s whisper, ‘Hey, Mum!  Isn’t that that actor?’  What an eye for detail.  No wonder the boy did so well in his exams.  I turned to look…and it was Billy Nighy, crossing the road in a navy suit.  I don’t know why that matters, but I, too, have an eye for detail, you know.  

Ever the sophisticate, I pointed and yelled, ‘That’s Bill Nighy crossing the road!’ Perhaps he studiously avoided turning round to acknowledge me because I forgot to mention his outfit.  I’ll never know because traffic passed behind him and Spud dragged me off, red-faced.  Spud, not me: I had been hungry, tired and aching up to that moment but Bill Nighy kicked my endorphins into action.

English: English actor Bill Nighy. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We couldn’t find the British Museum.  We asked a smiling security guard – she stopped smiling and sighed.  Apparently, our up-to-date, 2013 guide-book (free from the B&B) has a map seven years out of date.  Seven years ago is when the British Museum moved to Russell Square, as security guards across the borough are tired of telling the guide-book makers.  She was apologetic but it wasn’t her fault: if a guide-book publisher didn’t notice a whole building move across town, what hope did one little security guard have?

She smiled and waved us on.  I’ll say this about London: people (northern) complain about how rude southerners are but Spud and I were treated with friendliness and courtesy the whole time.

Spud and I decided to head to the station and get something to eat, as we were running out of time.  We had an hour wait at  Euston but I was glad just to sit.  

We travelled back First Class.  Hub had tried to get us First Class tickets (on sale) both ways, but it would have meant another day in London.  I was game but his credit card complained.

First Class is nice.  Served at the table with food and drink and smiles from the Virgins, it was worth the extra £4 per head.  

Two hours later we were home, keeping the Hub up until late with our tales – The Globe is awesome! (Spud) We saw Bill Nighy crossing the road! (me).

Dr Johnson was right: when a person is tired of London, they are tired of life.  What he didn’t mention was just how tired a person can get in London.  I didn’t get out of bed until my legs woke up, three o’clock on Saturday.

Totally worth it.

Happy soon to be my Birthday me, and thank you to the best husband in the world.  

What am I getting for Christmas?