Postcard From London

Mrs AWS and I are in London having chaperoned a Chinese VVIP to a rendezvous in the food court outside Euston Station. The little girl and her new escorts head off in the rough direction of a big building with a red flag flying over it in Portland Place. Perhaps to vacuum all the data that’s been harvested from the surroundings into her pink Hello Kitty Huawei mobile while travelling the lenght of England during a storm.

Mrs AWS and I take a moment to reflect on the day. We’d returned to the information desk at the station to be informed – somewhat too cheerfully — that no trains are heading all the way back north due to Storm Floris. It looks like we’re either spending the night on the floor at Euston or braving a Chinese-style Standing Class trip on a packed train, then hoping to find a Premier Inn when it terminates at Preston.

No need to panic — my efforts the previous night on the Avanti and Realtime Trains websites unearthed the possibility of a through service at 15:30. We shall see. In the meantime, we’ll wander about London and perhaps put together a Postcard from London. Not gonna lie — I got lost and we ended up wandering through Theatreland, but I did manage to spot the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, a place that holds a personal history for us.

I’ve only been to the theatre three times: once for a play, once for a musical, and once for Mike Harding — after which I gave up. The musical was Miss Saigon at the Theatre Royal, back when Mrs AWS and I were doing our courting. The show was preceeded by an endless bus journey south punctuated by frequent fag stops for the smokers.

The Spice Girls blared out on a boom box. An overnight at a Heathrow hotel followed a Saturday evening visit to the theatre. A cracking show — but in front of an audience packed with foreign tourists who didn’t realise you’re meant to clap at the end of each song. Thirty years ago, things are probably worse now. The prices are! The theatre is now staging Disney’s Hercules, with midweek matinee tickets starting at £79.50. Eek.

Those who are expert in such things inform me the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, is the oldest theatre site in continuous use in the world. It first opened its doors in 1663 and has seen everything from Shakespearean dramas to all-singing, all-dancing modern musicals.

Renowned for its grandeur and history, it remains a cornerstone of British theatre – and a magnet for tourists and theatre buffs alike. Speaking of Covent Garden proper, that is the next port of call on our wander and it calls to mind more nostalgic memories of courtship.

On that original bus trip, on the Sunday morning the rest of the group shopped till they dropped at Camden Market. But Mrs AWS and I made a polite excuse and slipped away to the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. It was well worth it.

We were shown around by a tall, sharp-dressed Cockney gent of a certain age. The kind who started their career cleaning buses and worked their way through the ranks until managing something important and, in proof of better times than now, therefore knew everything about the job through personal experience.

After retirement, he took up a few days at the museum each week to keep himself busy (rather than becoming an extra in gangster films, which would’ve suited him). Top bloke, full of stories.

On a more serious note, he’d been around during the Moorgate tube disaster and shared a first-hand account that sticks with us. Another moment that stands out, he asked everyone in the group (all foreign tourists except ourselves) where they were from. He knew all about Osaka and Frankfurt, but when we said Carlisle, he paused, ‘What?’, ‘Come again?’, ‘Where’s that?’, ‘Speakee English?’

Very funny.

The museum is still there, tucked into a corner opposite the less intersting Royal Ballet. After passing, I managed to lose our bearings again and stumbled across Seven Dials, a curious little junction nearby where seven streets converge. Laid out in the 1690s, a tall column in the centre is topped with — somewhat confusingly — six sundials.

The area used to be pretty rough, but these days it’s a lively mix of shops, cafés, theatres, and, according to the guide books, a generous helping of charm with history and modern life all mashed together. As Dickens wrote in Sketches by Boz, ‘The stranger who finds himself in the Dials for the first time… at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity awake for no inconsiderable time…’

Oooo!

We wandered on and, true to form, got lost once more. But this time, we’d ambled down the obscure passage that allowed sight of a familiar spire in the distance that looked like St Martin-in-the-Fields. Good news. You can’t go wrong if you end up in Trafalgar Square while strolling around the capital with the wife.

However, the day took a bit of a turn for the worse. The avenue in front of the National Gallery on the north end of the square allows a view down Whithall towards the unmistakable outline of the House of Liars and Thieves.

That’s enough of that. We hurried away, got lost again but somehow — by sheer instinct or well-deserved dose of explorer’s luck — managed to stumble upon Euston Station. Inside, the ever-useful departure board showed a 15:30 train north. Promising! We wandered up to the First Class Lounge where the chap at the desk keeping the riff raff out had more of a hint of the chilly end of the Deccan Plateau about him. He asked us how we were.

Addressing him faultingly in his own dialect, I replied that we were bearing up. Being north of Preston people, we hoped to spend an hour or so in the lounge practising standing in anticipation of a full train thundering towards our own cold plateau on the border with inhospitable Scotland. He appreciated the effort.’Come back to the counter at ten past three,’ he said while giving a knowing tap to his nose. Memo to puffins: always stay on the right side of staff.

If the Man In Seat 61 website is too modern, the First Class lounge in Euton is just right. Normally frequented by myself in the evenings while packed with the likes of Manchester businessmen and Cheshire wives, I’m used to it being rammed.

This time, on account of the bad weather and it being mid-afternoon, it is deserted and showing all of its 1970s decor splendour. And it gets better. As Seat 61 is said to be the best seat on the train, likewise a perfect stool sits in the First Class lounge at Euston. And it was available. Find out all about it next time.

To be continued…
 

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