A Jolly Day Out In London Town

Firstly, I should like to say that Her Maj the Queen keeps a jolly good gaff. Bit ostentatious, bit bling, and too many gold snakes creeping out of the top of what would otherwise be a jolly nice pale blue vase, but hats off, Buckingham Palace is a top crib and I guess HM doesn't have that much say over the day to day interior design.

Anyway, I should now like to report upon the Day as a Whole, so excuse me for a second whilst I place my tongue firmly in my cheek...

'We alighted on the platform of the small countryside railway station, having deposited five and one half of our finest English pounds for the honour of parking our horse and carriage for the day. Already the station was bustling with fellow travellers - business men, elderly ladies, young women with their many, many off-spring who, despite the earliness of the hour, were already giving full vent to their lungs.

The train arrived at three minutes past its due time, but what is three minutes in the aspect of time, unless one is boiling an egg? We climbed aboard, receiving only mild jostlings from the gathered crowd whose ebullience we put down to the excitement of a visit to our glorious Capital City. Alas, it soon became clear that the train of eight carriages was fully seated, mostly, it transpired, with the school children of our Continental Friends, Les Francais. I remarked to my Husband that maybe it would have been wise of the train company to make the train of more carriages, it being rush hour and the season of general holiday. But then I remembered to add, 'What do I know about manly subjects such as trains, since I am a mere lady?' and so we resigned ourselves to a bracing hour and ten minutes standing in an increasingly crowded corridor, by the lavatorial facility.

I attempted to distract myself by the Reading of a Novel, but then, what better entertainment could there have been than the Jolly Party of French Children taking it upon themselves to sing loudly and vigorously a goodly medley of obscure French ditties, interspersed with snippets of Abba, Justin Beiber and One Direction? Again, I remarked to my Husband that perhaps this could be the reason why our Gallic Neighbours never win the Eurovision Song Contest, and why their poetry is so lacking in scansion and finesse. Yet immediately I realised the unkindness of my comment, it due solely to my feeling of discomfiture at travelling standing, by a lavatory, with a stranger's armpit in close proximity to my nostrils. And for this honour a mere twenty English pounds a ticket, a bargain when cheese is so dear.

Later, as we approached the vicinity of London Bridge and its delightful array of local graffiti art,  a young couple standing nearby struck up a conversation about the demise of a family cat. Such sad occasion seemed to cause much mirth to these young people, and brought threat of a tear to my own good eye, the conversation raising as it did memory of the recent demise of my own dear Pandora Kitten. My wish was to shout 'Shut up, you heartless, arrogant b*****ds!' but my Husband, who is wise and devoid of confrontation, counselled me against this course of action, declaring it to be both unladylike and inviting of verbal retribution from the aforesaid couple, and so I contained myself and in due course we disgorged from the train and into London itself.

It seemed the Whole of The World was visiting London! Pavement space was at a premium and queues were lengthy. I confess to being mightily shocked at the price of refreshments, their cost being more than adequate to cover our annual household electricity bill. We had fancied to dine well in one of the finer local eateries, yet time conspired against us as we made our way to the Palace, and thus we sufficed our appetite with an egg and cress sandwich from (keeping up the French theme) Pret a Manger whilst standing in the queue for our entry to the Palace. 'Tis lucky,' I quipped to my Husband, 'that I am well versed with standing today...ahahahahahaha!' 'Indeed, Wife,' rejoined my Husband, 'and think of all the calories we have spent by standing and walking and dining on a sandwich.' 'Are you saying I am fat?' quoth I? 'Heaven forfend,' said Husband, taking a quick step backwards.

Our Palace visit over, we began our lengthy promenade back to the railway station for the journey homewards. I confess, dear reader, that my demeanour was not at its fragrant best at this point in the day, but justified my uncharacteristic crabbiness by having worn my second best comfy shoes in favour of my first best comfy shoes, having previously been assured that standing and walking activities for the day would be kept to a minimum. Nonetheless we boarded an earlier train than anticipated thus securing ourselves of a seat.

Our journey home was comforted by chocolate and relative peace. Our arrival home was comforted by banoffee pie and relative pizza. 

Whatever that is.

And thus, as the dusk drew on and I tucked the hens to bed, weary from the Exertions of the Day (me, not the hens - they had spent the day crocheting antimaccassars and drinking elderflower cordial) I declared NEVER to visit London, ever, EVER again.'