A Grand Day Out

Everything you need for village living

The conversation went like this:

Friend Pam: Look at these fabulous desserts at the restaurant where we took Mum and Dad for their anniversary.

Tilly Bud: Drool…

Friend Pam: I’ll take you there one day; you have to eat these puddings; they’re fabulous.

Will she, bud?: Droo…l

Friend Pam: Hang on a minute…your birthday’s coming up…I’ll take you for a meal on your birthday!

There is a God: Thank yo…r….oo…l…

And so it came to pass last Wednesday that I found myself heading out of Manchester and into Burnley.  To misquote Field of Dreams (and, in fact, tell an outright lie for comic effect), the only thing we have in common is that Pam came from Burnley; and I had once heard of it.

Pam suffers from a chronic condition: she cannot plan an event without it being a huge success and, as we were heading in that direction, she reasoned, why not go up the famous Pendle Hill (never heard of it) and be tourists in the famous Witch Trial/Trail area (never heard of it).  We could see the famous Eye of God (never heard of it) in the famous centuries-old church (never heard of it) where her husband had proposed to her (I’ve heard of him); call in at the Elizabethan Towneley Hall (never heard of it); eat lunch there (definitely heard of that!); call in to see her parents for some northern hospitality (we’re all famous for that up here); and finish off at the famous pudding restaurant (which sells other food but, seriously, who cares?).

The woman is a genius.

We had a fabulous day.  Pendle Hill was gorgeous; the witch business was fascinating and a little sad (hanging innocent women gets me like that; I dunno why).  The church was…open.  It was hard to believe we were in 21st Century Britain when we could walk into an open, unmanned church and be trusted not to damage/steal anything.  Amazing.  Of course, it probably helped that it was situated halfway up a mountain in the middle of witch country.

I forgot to take my camera but Pam obliged by taking photos with hers, including my request for a pic of the inside of the public toilet – it had a high cistern with a chain!  I was back in my childhood (complete with cold seat) particularly as, technically, it was an outside loo.  Pam and I have a friendly rivalry going to see which of us is most common and I think I win because I was born in a Liverpool slum and come from Irish peasant stock (hence the Liverpool slum): an outside toilet with a lock was a step up for me.

My favourite spot: The Long Gallery. Can you see me way back there?

Towneley Hall was wonderful.  Walking through rooms which have been inhabited by who knows how many people over the past 500 years is one of my favourite things to do and I’m afraid my mouth got stuck in the Wow! position until it hurt Pam’s ears.  But that’s to be expected of a slumdog, of course.  I was, like, well impressed.

There was a slight change of plan when we saw the queue outside the restaurant door and, as we’d only had huge slices of cake for elevenses we decided – which is to say, Pam decided and I went happily along with any plan intended to feed me – to head straight for pudding paradise and eat there, calling in for a brew at Pam’s folks’ afterwards.  Which is just as well as Pam’s Mum was having her feet done and didn’t really want her guest to see that.  I don’t know why; I’ve got feet; I know how the whole thing works.

I am praying for the strength to dig in and climb out the other side

I forget the name of the place where we ate because I was too busy stuffing my gullet with a delicious carvery (which could have been called a spoonery because the meat just fell off the bone and the chef told me that sometimes he has to use a spoon to serve it) to write it down.  Pam tells me it’s called Sycamore Farm.  Check the desserts:

Now tell me it wasn’t worth turning 52 just for that.

We rolled out of there for the short journey to Pam’s parents’ house and I’m not sure that it wasn’t the best part of my day.  Her parents are lovely and her mother is adorable.  She hugged me despite never having met me before and then gave me an entertaining rundown of some of her neighbours, past and present.  They included friendly drug addicts who ran in to help during a crisis to the creepy bloke who introduced himself with the words, I’m not a paedophile and I’ve got a letter to prove it.  Pam’s Mum – or I should say, Pamela’s Mum, because that’s what she called her the whole time; no one ever calls Pam Pamela, she’s too friendly to be full-named;  but you know what mothers are like.  As I was saying, Pamela’s Mum wasn’t convinced by the not-a-molester, though she was glad to see him go when he was arrested for his cannabis farm and stealing his neighbour’s electricity to supply it.  I can’t decide which of her neighbours was my absolute favourite, but it’s a toss-up between the biker who stripped and rebuilt his motorbike many times over fifteen years, in the middle of his living room and partner and children; or the dominatrix who kept a dungeon in the basement but lived elsewhere.

Don’t think that any of this is my usual hyperbole; I swear I had it straight from the horse’s mouth – which was wearing its false teeth at the time, as she happily informed me.  Only the best for Pam’s friends.

I think I love her.

Thank you, Pam, for giving me a brilliant day, showing me a fantastic time, and for having a wonderful mother.

All photographs courtesy of Pam Robinson.

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?

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.’

Joke 877

Tourist Alert (Photo credit: scazon)

A bus load of tourists arrive at Runnymede. They gather around the guide who says, “This is the spot where the barons forced King John to sign the Magna Carta.”

A fellow at the front of the crowd asks, “When did that happen?”

“1215,” answers the guide.

The man looks at his watch and says, “Damn! Just missed it by half-an-hour!”

*

Two tourists were driving through Louisiana. As they approached Natchitoches, they began arguing about the pronunciation of the town’s name.

They argued back and forth until they stopped for lunch. As they stood at the counter, one tourist asked the employee, “Before we order, could you please settle an argument for us? Would you please pronounce where we are…very slowly?” 

 The girl leaned over the counter and said, “Burrrrrrrr, gerrrrrrr, Kiiiiing.”

*

From workjoke.com

London Day 2: Oh What A Beautiful Morning

After a fitful night for Spud and a deep sleep for me, I woke him with a cup of tea (provided).  It had rained in the night but was trying to clear.  As our seats were standing in the yard, we fervently hoped it would succeed.

After showering, we went down to breakfast.

Open to the public during the summer months, the B&B is actually student accommodation for the London School of Economics, with the emphasis on ‘economic’ – £41 each for a London room, 3 1/2 minutes from where we wanted to be, and with a cooked breakfast thrown in. Talk about good value!  The party in the bar across the road stopped before it got too late; scenery included TV production trucks & trailers on the doorstep. We could see into one trailer from our room and Spud only just stopped me from wandering into it thinking it was some sort of diner: I could see people at tables and what I thought was a waiter, wandering up and down with mugs of tea.

Our room was basic and clean; no TV but the shiny white towels and shampoo sachets made up for that.   Who needs TV when the whole of London is on your doorstep?  Not us.

We had until 10:30 to check out but we wanted to fill every minute so we were out by 9:20 and entering the Globe at 9:25.  The Hub had paid for the tour and exhibition and a tour was just starting.  It was fascinating and I couldn’t help but be the annoying person in the party who puts up their hand and asks a million questions.

It was one of those few times in my life when I really didn’t care what people thought of me: I wanted to know stuff and I had the opportunity to find out; I wasn’t going to waste it.

Did you know the Globe – with only legally required health & safety additions – is made entirely of wood – even the pegs which hold it together?  That it moves and seasons and is a thing of great beauty?  That thunder storms were made by rolling cannonballs around in the attic?  That, as far as possible, costumes, props, the building, are as authentically Shakespearean as they can be?  That the names on the paving slabs in the outer yard are those of everyone who contributed to building the new Globe?  Well now you, me and about thirty other members of our tour group do.

We had to be silent at one point because the musicians were rehearsing on stage (and they all signed my programme!).  It was fun to see the difference between the rehearsal and the performance later on.

At the end of the tour we were encouraged to make a donation.  Anything was welcome, from £1 for a red rubber bracelet to signing over your first born child as an indentured servant.  It was worth our £2 because the nice lady at the donation table warned us to queue from twelve at the latest if we wanted to be certain of a place in front of the stage.

Then we hit the shop.  Last time I was at the Globe, all I could afford was a pencil with a Shakespeare head; this time, I was armed with the Hub’s credit card.

I had warned him that if they had notebooks, no matter the price, he was buying one for me.  I was on notebook number 60 last week but this week’s number 61 is red and flimsy and one on which I would never normally have spent £6, but it has ‘Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre’ indented on the cover and I had to have it. The Hub also bought two postcards (one for Spud; one for me), a pack of playing cards (for Spud), a t-shirt (for Spud), a badge (for Spud*) and a souvenir book of the history of the Globe.

*I have to say, Spud seemed to enjoy my birthday almost as much as I did.

We headed back out and round to the exhibition entrance.  More fun was to be had. We went into a booth and Spud played Lady Macbeth, recording his performance and playing it back to our great hilarity.  I don’t think Shakespeare would have approved of the accidental inclusion of the word, ‘mate’, but we won’t tell him if you won’t.  Here’s some of what we saw:

 

London Day 1: An Enchanted Evening

Previously on The Laughing Housewife:

Tilly and Spud spend some time in the Tower, like many of Royalty’s once-favoured; then they spend some money in the Tower shop – as much as £6.97.

And now, the conclusion:

After our busy and happy afternoon, I needed to sit down.  The Tower is sited next to the Thames, so Spud and I found a vacant bench and feasted on cake and water as we watched the boats.  Once rested, Spud expressed a desire to walk across Tower Bridge.  I’m ageing but game, so off we went.  Call me slow, but it was only when I saw Tower Bridge is close by the Tower that I realised where its name came from.  Does that sort of thing ever happen to you?

Trying hard but failing miserably not to look like tourists because the Hub said we must not be mugged or it would spoil our trip, we kept stopping so I could take photographs, including a photo of a photo shoot which Spud spotted taking place below us.

Once across the bridge, we kept eyes peeled for a Tube station.  Isn’t ‘eyes peeled’ a horrible saying?  Like something that might be done to me in the Tower.  

Spud saw what he thought was a sign for the Tube but which was actually for the buses.  We sat to check the map (London is generous with its seating) and Spud noticed we were on a street which appeared on the map and the distance to the B&B was only that  [……..] far, so how long could it take to walk?

Tube Sign, London (Photo credit: DanieVDM)

London Calling (Photo credit: paul_appleyard)  Can you see the difference?  A thin blue line, that’s all.

Almost an hour, as it happened; but we won’t discuss that unless you want to put me in a bad mood.  We went the long way round, though we didn’t know that until the next day.  When we arrived at the B&B to book in, with me holding on to Spud for support for the last half-mile, the poor receptionist couldn’t get a coherent word from me.  I think she believed I was foreign.  Spud booked us in; all I had to do was sign my name.  Lifting my arm took a while but I got there in the end.

The room was on the second floor, close to the lift.  I made it. After a revivifying cup of tea (provided), I showered.  Once clean, I could breathe (remember my little armpit problem) and felt more able to not waste a precious minute of London Time.  We headed down to Reception and asked the same receptionist for directions to somewhere cheap to eat.  She was surprised at how much my English had improved in thirty minutes.

We left the B&B and less than four minutes later we were at the Globe!  The Hub could not have selected a better B&B location (at a very reasonable price).  We took photos and admired it and then wandered off we knew not where to find some food.  We just walked until we found a place which looked affordable and which prepared food we had heard of.  It was a chip shop.  No fish, but massive hamburgers.  Spud had one; I had a bowl of chips (no paper, just polystyrene: how very southern); they were generous portions and I couldn’t finish mine.

We meandered back towards the Globe, admiring a trio of musicians who played classical tracks from their CD – Reminiscence, which I first read as Remini Science, to Spud’s great amusement.  You haven’t lived until you’ve heard popular classics played on a keyboard, violin and accordion combo.  Bizarre but lovely.

Back in front of the Globe, a couple of cyclists were doing tricks on steps to a violin accompanist.  Not sure if they were all together but somehow, it worked.

Since the year 2000, one of my fervent desires has been to walk across the Millennium Bridge.  I don’t know why; it’s just something I have always wanted to do.  So we did.  It is close by the Globe and in line with St Paul’s on the other side of the Thames.  It took us about twenty minutes to cross (I was sloooooow by this time) and, as we were so close, we walked up to St Paul’s, pausing only for a girl in heels who was with two young men, playing American football (badly) outside a restaurant; to admire what looked like three huge stainless steel balls, randomly placed and for no good reason that I could think of but, hey, this is London, so who cares; and to take a photograph of a scooter which had fallen onto its side like a stranded turtle.  In retrospect, the side-on scooter probably had nothing to do with London, but the fever was upon me.

I took some photos of Spud in front of a fence at St Paul’s because I thought it was the same spot we had visited about twelve years ago, but it probably wasn’t. We were at St P’s back side but it was now dark and I was tired so we turned around to walk back.  I was shuffling by this time.  It took ages to get back to the B&B but the trip was enlivened by a lone flautist below the bridge.

It took an even longer time for me to fall asleep because there wasn’t a bit of me that didn’t ache (I wrote the day’s events in my notebook while lying flat on my face because I couldn’t lift my arm enough to write without support) but it was totally worth it – Spud and I had a packed and fun day and I don’t regret even one painful body part.

Thank you, Hub, for the hurt you caused; I loved every minute of it.

 

London Day 1: Afternoon Delight

Spud getting our bearings in the map.

11:43 Board train to London.

11:45 Bored on train to London.

13:55 Train arrives in London.  Tilly and Spud hit the ground running.  Ow.

14:00 First things first – decide where we’re going to go.  The Tower of London it is!  Hub has pre-paid the Tube tickets so we just have to ask for directions.   Begin serious hammering of the Hub’s credit card by buying entrance tickets to Tower of London at Euston railway station.  What a strange world this is.

Some time after 14:00 (Tilly giddy with excitement; doesn’t look at her watch or remember to phone the Hub to tell him ‘Arrived safely’: Take Yellow Line* to Tower Hill from Euston Square Tube station, carefully holding tight to belongings as per Hub’s instruction not to get mugged.  Stand facing each other as directed so that we can see each other’s backpacks; realise we will have to walk like inverted pushmi-pullyu and decide to risk attack from larcenous Londoners in order to perambulate like sensible human beings.

*Not the official name; just the colour on the Tube map.

Slight moment of panic: Tube crowded – people piling off and on in free-for-all – Spud climbs on – doors begin to close while Tilly still on platform – Tube virgin mother (me) acts on instinct – reaches in to closing Tube and yanks son out with supermother strength – exasperated Spud scolds unrepentant mother – laughs – notice a notice on boarding next Tube that doors will not close if teenager trapped in them.

Q: Where did Beefeaters get their name?
A: Nobody knows (straight from the horse’s mouth)

Later: Dismount at Tower Hill; make way to Tower.  Just in time for Beefeater* guided tour.  Laugh at all his jokes because he is a retired soldier with lots of ribbons and missed his calling as an actor.  Funny, too.  I checked his name tag: Simon Dodd.

*Officially known as Yo! Man of the Guard.

Later still: Marvel at standing on the very spot where a young Princess Elizabeth (the I) entered the Tower at Traitor’s Gate.

‘Much suspected of me. Nothing proved can be. Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner.’
Etched into a window in the Tower by QEI

Marvel at viewing the very window where the young Princes are said to have last been sighted before their murder.

Marvel at Tower Green, where Anne Boleyn and Jane Grey and a couple of others were beheaded.

Marvel at the houses they stayed in; and where our present Queen occasionally stays*, the Tower being the Crown’s oldest residence.

*Accidentally typed ‘strays’.  I’m sure there’s never been any of that sort of business by our very moral monarch. 

Marvel to be in the very chapel where Katherine of Aragon and many another prayed; and where six people are interred, including Sir (now St) Thomas More.

Marvel at…well, you get the idea.  The whole visit was marvellous.

Later than that: The one thing I have ALWAYS wanted to do is see the Crown Jewels.  The queue was roughly twenty minutes’ long.  I’d have waited all afternoon.  The jewels were fabulous, of course; but what took my breath away were the swords: jewel-encrusted and simply beautiful.  The crowns were amazing.  Charles II’s maces were amacing (give me a break – I’m exhausted; you’ve seen my schedule).

Even later than that: Return to the use of present tense.  Visit the Line of Kings which is the oldest organised visitor attraction in the world and comprised of a bunch of old armour on wooden horses, representing the armour worn by kings; but not the actual armour worn by kings; but historical because old in its own right.  Only in Britain….

Take call from frantic Hub, wondering if we’re still alive.  See off his outrage by whining, ‘Don’t be angry – it’s my birthday.’  Birthday not for another seven weeks.  Can’t believe it works.

Finally: Get chucked out of Tower (how ironic) and regret not arriving in London at the crack of dawn and spending all day there.

Last finally: Visit gift shop.  Buy tacky souvenirs for Hub.  That’s how much I love him for sending me on this birthday trip.

I LOVE London!

London was brilliant. I make no such claim about my photography.

London was brilliant.  

In 35 hours we managed to visit/see/cross/meet the Tower of London including the Crown Jewels, Tower Bridge, the Globe (of course), loads of street musicians, St Paul’s, two fellas being not very good on stunt bikes, the Millennium Bridge, the worst pizza ever made, a novelist, Regent Street, Eros, Piccadilly, a VERY fluid Macbeth (never wore so much foreign spit in my life), friendly southerners (really) and Bill Nighy!

Details to follow.