I had forgotten that pollution in the UK is much worse than at home – multiple times noses were blown, only to discover the contents were now black with soot and grime. Ewww!
In direct contrast to the icky imagery above, one particular part of yesterday was surreal – it felt like we were in a movie. We had just gotten off the train and were walking down a long, gleaming tunnel to our connection; the air hazy with .. steam? A smoke machine? Magic? A man with a beautiful voice and a guitar busked along our path; his music echoing throughout the chamber like an ethereal post-production soundtrack. We walked 3 abreast in misty slo-mo silence down the tunnel, internally marveling at the fact that we were a million miles from home in a land we only knew from Dickens and Blyton – this was real yet so unreal, and there was no other place we wanted to be.
At least, that’s what was going through MY mind – for all I know, the other girls were singing the Meow Mix song in their heads. My inner monologue runs more melodramatic than I usually let on (mostly because it’s hard to write about dongs in flowery Harlequinesq prose without using the words “turgid” or “meat baton”), but the situation called for more romance than usual. It’s okay once in a while. If I start dreamily waxing poetic about laundry or shoes, it’ll be time to rein myself in.
There are SO MANY scooters and motorcycles in London! It’s amazing (look at them all!) and enviable (I wish I had Lola here) and hilarious (HAH they have to wear a giant L, much bigger than the L/N in BC) and infuriating (they drive like jerks – so much lane splitting) and cozy (everyone wears a riding skirt to keep their nethers warm). Squee!
We are stuffed from lunch, but have made an executive decision to order dessert. It is essential to have spotted dick while in London – the curved dick we’ve had in Canada just doesn’t count.
We made Heather order it, as she was the most likely to do so without giggling. She did admirably – Heather is excellent at spotted dick!