Day 13: From maps to satnav – a generational change

When we were last in the UK I undertook never again to ire a car without satnav. Of course, I know my way around every inch of England. Except of course that I don’t. Eager and dedicated readers of my outpourings will recall the worst journey in the world.

So the current machine has satnav but it seems to me that the technology has not quite got there yet. One thing is that the spoken voice hasn’t quite been trained to speak in navigation speak. So instead of saying “at the next roundabout take the first exit onto the A45” she says “at the next roundabout take the first exit onto the a 45” where the “A” designation is replaced with the indefinite article. So you are left wondering where all the other 45s might be lurking and then you realise that you left them at your Mother’s when you went to University and she threw than out after two years and you wish she hadn’t because that 45 of “Substitute” by The Who with “Circles” on the B-side would be worth a small fortune now … and by the time all that has gone through your head you have missed the turning and you’re going south on the M1 when it should have been north.

We had a day with the folks today are not perhaps as quick off the mark as they used to be. My Father now has this walking aid (in fact he seems to have a whole fleet of walking aids) that has three wheels and two brakes and a black pouch for putting stuff in. He is a demon behind the wheel of this thing. As he powers down the road people fall apart as if it were the sea parting before the bow of a fast boat.

We had decided that we would go to Stratford-upon-Avon, home of the bard (that’s William Shakespeare, known as Bill to his friends, for those of you not of a literary bent). The G had been on a bus from London to Stratford in the 1970s and I am sure that I have been but I cannot recall when. I cannot describe myself as a Shakespeare buff but my Father surprised me by quoting at some length from a number of his plays. I can remember the umpteenth anniversary of his birth or death (I don’t remember which) in about 1964 when special stamps were issued and I queued to buy them at the Post Office. I have also acted, to brilliant reviews, in a slack handful of Shakespeare plays, A Winter’s Tale and The Merchant of Venice spring to mind. But so far my ambition to play Malvolio in Twelfth Night is yet to be realised. I think I should be a rather good Malvolio.

We decided that we would go via Banbury as it would take us on a route that did not contain any motor ways. On the way we saw a National Trust sign for Sulgrave Manor and Canons Abbey. We had heard of neither of these and, not having a set agenda, decided to pay one or other a rapid visit. We already knew that many National Trust places are close for the winter and we found Mulgrave Manor to be so closed. We didn’t bother with Canon Abbey but pressed on instead to Banbury.

Sulgrave Manor was built by Lawrence Washington, George Washington’s five times great grandfather, in the mid-1500s.

Sulgrave itself is quite large. We saw several horses trotting along the road and a few fine houses such as this one. There is also a bronze age barrow dating from between 2400BCE and 1500 BCE (they gave themselves some leeway in the dating.

We found Banbury. But Banbury had changed, I remember 30 years ago I would drive through Banbury when I drove to Birmingham from Newbury. Even the road numbering appeared to have changed; my recollection was that the A34 or A43 ran through the town. But the current road numbers are different. After some driving around we did find Banbury Cross but did not stop to kick the ancient stones.

Banbury Cross is mentioned in the well-known nursery rhyme but that Banbury Cross must be different than this one which was erected in 1859. The original one may have been erected in the 16th Century but there is much debate about the origins of the nursery rhyme and, indeed, who was the “fine lady”.

We made it eventually to Stratford-upon-Avon to find it also considerably changed. My Father has what he refers to as a “damaged person’s parking disc” so we were able to park in pole position and set off to see what there was where. We followed signs to Shakespeare’s birthplace. We found it but we were less than impressed.

You can see Shakespeare’s birthplace from the street but you would not know what it was as there is no signage. A short step further along is The Shakespeare Centre. It is here that you can get in to see stuff. The tickets were £15 odd each and there appeared to be a number of attractions included. We were ripped off. Once inside the centre we saw the front the famous birthplace. There was next to bugger all inside. The other attractions were obvious only by the difficulty in locating them. These included Mary Arden’s house but who she was I cannot say. No doubt I could look it up.

The Shakespeare Centre: avoid thus place like the plague or you will assuredly be ripped off.

Thus disappointed we decided that some sort of refreshment was called for. We had passed Hobson’s Patisseries on the way up so we thought we would try them for size. We were glad we did for we had a fine luncheon. I had some “award winning” pork pie which was extremely good but I have to say, and I say this with all confidence, that one that The G and I made at Christmas may have been slightly better. I am not sure for I may be biased.

Hobsons Patisseries also offered these massive scones. I should have tried one instead of (no, in addition to) the pork pie.

We headed back to my Parents’ place. We had booked to go to dinner at The Cromwell Arms at Kislingbury post code NN7 4AG. This we duly pumped into the satnav and off we went. First mistake was going south on the M1 rather than north. That cost us 24 miles and 30 minutes. Then we finally arrived at our supposed destination to find no Cromwell Arms. There were no arms at all; Cromwellian or otherwise. Mystified I pumped in “Kislinbury” and we set off. After 5 minutes we found The Cromwell Arms. I had called to say we would be late and when we arrived they said that some satnavs get the postcode confused and dump you in the back of beyond.

Nonetheless we had a fine pub dinner and then home to bed.

Day 12: Dunstable? Where the hell is Dunstable?

We had a good stay in our apartment in London. It was small but it was central and very comfortable and, perhaps surprisingly for London, reasonably quiet. We had thought tat Big Ben was down for maintenance but we could hear it chiming gently.

Our apartment was comfortable. There was a dormer window. Some had added a small window at the side through which you could see Westminster Abbey over the rooftops.

From the dormer window one could see that finest of ecclesiastical supply companies, the well-known (to a cleric at least) Wippel & Co. Their website tells me that they have been going "since 1789 and have established a reputation that is second to none throughout the World for supplying goods and services to Church and Clergy of the finest possible quality". Note the capital "W" in world. I rather like that.

We packed up and grabbed a cab to the Hertz place in Edgware Road where we picked up a large (it is pretty big) Volvo C90 SUV. It's rather a nice piece of equipment and, importantly, it has satnav. We set off a would our way through Kilburn and other famous London suburbs before emerging onto the M1. We had plenty of time and thought that an excursion would be in order. In the event we had not choice. The M1 was closed for maintenance between Junctions 10 and 12 so we turned off at Junction 9. Unfortunately so did everyone else. Thus began an adventure of epic proportions.

We crawled at a speed that is less than any positive speed you can think of (that means something to a mathematician, to you Gentle Reader it means "snail's pace" or slower) toward Dunstable. Now, I have heard of Dunstable but I had never been there. I shall be glad if I never go again. It has more traffic lights than any other town of similar size in the world. Of this I am certain. None of these traffic lights stay green for longer than a nanosecond or two.

You would think from its market cross that Dunstable might be quite pretty but this picture is highly romanticised.

I read of Dunstable in Wikipedia that "in Roman times its name was Durocobrivis. There was a general assumption that the nominative form of the name had been Durocobrivae, so that is what appears on the map of 1944 illustrated below. But current thinking is that the form Durocobrivis, which occurs in the Antonine Itinerary, is a fossilised locative that was used all the time and the Ordnance Survey now uses this form". I have no idea what is a "fossilised locative" and I have no desire to. 

I had thought that we had seen the worst of England's towns but I was wrong. Having eventually escaped the grasp of Dunstable's traffic control system we thought we see what Aylesbury was like. We were not impressed. Aylesbury was declared the new county town of Buckinghamshire in 1529 by King Henry VIII: Aylesbury Manor was among the many properties belonging to Thomas Boleyn, the father of Anne Boleyn, and it is rumoured that the change was made by the King to curry favour with the family.

It does sport a statue of Benjamin Disraeli though I have been completely unable to discover the connection between Disraeli and Aylesbury.

Benjamin Disraeli in Aylesbury. Why he is there no one seems to know.

We are staying at Pastures Farm which we stayed at last time we visited the UK We rather like our hosts Debbie and John and Pastures Farm is in a beautiful setting. We checked in just in tim for a cup of tea and then set off to see The Parents.

We found them hale a hearty and in good spirits. My Mother had baked a cake of which we partook a slice each and it was just like the cakes my Mother used to bake. She always had a cake in a tin ready to go and often more than one. She reminded me that her Gingerbread was among my favourites. I have the recipe somewhere. My Father was in good form and being humorous as ever.

We stayed for dinner which I assisted with although possibly not very ably. We will return tomorrow.

Day 11: Jermyn Street and The Ledbury

The Jermyn Street experience

I am not a man who is easily intimidated. I stride confidently through life and, in general, I have the view that people can take me as I am or they can not take me as I am. If they fall into the latter category then that is their problem and not mine. My teachers at school did not always share this view but, again, that was their problem. For, as Toad says in Wind in the Willows "Some men are modest and some aren't, and I'm not. After all, I have nothing to modest about".

So it has always surprised me that I have never managed to enter the premises of Turnbull & Asser, that famous emporium in Jermyn Street. Until today. From their home on Jermyn Street, they have been the choice of discerning gentlemen for handmade clothing and accessories for over a century. So says their website and I can conclude from this this that I am such a discerning gentleman for today I entered their hallowed portal for the first time.

We were having a lighter day today which means that I had a spare hour or so to catch on the blogging. Most of this was wasted with dealing with the peculiarities of Google's blogger. You can do some weird things with captions that completely stuff everything up so Day 5 has been a challenge. But it's done now.

We have now discovered that we can walk to Westminster underground station without getting lost and indeed by the end of the day we had honed our route between apartment and tube to a major degree. I am finding that my absence from London for so long (with the exception of intermittent holiday activity) has meant that my former nonchalance about taking tubes, buses and taxis has partially deserted me and and I know have to think about how to get from A to B. Of course we needed to change at Bond Street to get to Oxford Street. Bt I had to think about it.

Being at Oxford Street enables one to wander down Regent Street to find Jermyn Street which, as all you dapper dressers know, is where the men's outfitters congregate. There is no shopping that can compare with London. Dubai is trying but it does not have the same soul. London has old building and won't really planned to be the way it is today. It just happened. There is no such retail experience in Australia.

I will not bore you with the minutiae of our shopping excursion but suffice it say that I had a very satisfactory experience and I made a number of purchases, at great expense, that will benefit my look and feel on my return. Some of these purchases, two fine cotton shirts and a tie, and a rather magnificent jacket, were from Turnbull & Asser. We spent a very pleasant hour in there hoping to se Prince Charles (who is dressed by Turnbull & Asser) but it was not his day for shopping. I have not seen him since we were at University together.

You could trip the light fantastic in those shoes. They are the jam. And the socks? Words fail me.

The famous jacket front and back. It's sort of redolent of the English boating scene.

We had a rather fine cup of coffee each at a Cafe Nero and wandered through Fortnum & Mason whose Australian wine selection rather disappointed us. We then walked past Barkers and you will know (as I didn't) that Barker shoes have been an English tradition for over a hundred years. In the window was the finest pair of blue suede shoes (as in the famous song). I walked past. The G went into a jewellers and looked at  really god necklace which was expensive and was really cool but she did not feel she could justify investing in it. We came out. The blue suede shoes were as a magnet and I had to go and try them on. There is no harm in looking. There is. I am now up a pair of blue suede shoes, some rather nice socks and a belt that matches the shoes.

The Ledbury

This is the fourth visit by The G and me to the UK and our trips our evolving into fine food discovery expeditions that include “restaurants with rooms” and Michelin starred chefs.

A “restaurant with rooms” entitles the diner to totally indulge and stay the night. We have enjoyed the “restaurant with rooms” concept at the Yorke Arms in Nidderdale in the Yorkshire Dales, Jericho’s at the Waverley in Windermere in the Lake District and The Horn of Plenty in Tavistock, Devon.

The Michelin-starred journey started at the top with Heston’s Fat Duck experience in Bray. This was true theatre on a plate with the exquisite tastes still embedded in our minds. We went to Drakes and Ripley to celebrate my sister’s birthday and the Castle Terrace in Edinburgh.

Once you have started a culinary and gastronomic quest of the kind we seem to be on the question for this trip was obviously “where to this time?” As it turned out The G had the answer. I like to buy the paper copy of GQ and I usually buy it every month and I generally leave it lying around for The G to peruse. Sometime in 2015 she read a GQ and therein was information that she retained in that steel trap she calls a mind. When we decided to come to the UK this time The G said “we must book The Ledbury as the chef is an Aussie from Newcastle called Brett Graham and he holds two Michelin stars”. So that was easily decided.

We set out in a light drizzle which was not good as we had no rain gear. We (or at least I) had decided that we should take the tube to Leyton Park and then walk. We were travelling at about 6pm and the tube trip went through Victoria and Paddington so it was packed, like the proverbial sardines, with commuters. I still cannot believe that I thought that this sort of proximity to the rest of humanity was normal. We alighted (you alight from a train, you disembark from a ship: you never "get off" any form of transport). It was damp and miserable and because it was dark my somewhat limited directional capability (I cannot do maps and directions) meant that we took a cab. And it was a good job we did because it was further than I thought. When we can back we took a cab all the way and it was not very expensive. Should have done that in the first place.

We arrived hungry to be greeted by some the most friendly and efficient front-of-house imaginable. There were plenty of front-of-house staff: 11 of them for 55 diners. We were looked after by Seamus, the Sommelier, and Sam and we thoroughly enjoyed their banter and their knowledge. And their knowledge was extensive. The G has a habit of asking many questions about the dishes she eats and the way in which they have been prepared. These guys knew ingredients and cooking temperatures of the food and the pH and sugar content of the wine.

Rather than bang on any more here are pictures of what we ate with comments. I am indebted to The G for these comments; she pays great attention to all this stuff and has almost perfect recollection. She claims that when celeriac ribbons have the texture of silken tofu the pictures need no captions. That may be so but the pictures still have captions. Maybe the measure of their success is that they are fully booked for lunch (5 days a week) and dinner (7 days a week).

We were glad that we took the seven-course degustation with the matching wines, expensive though it was. The matching wines were spectacular, they were generous in quantity and each perfectly highlighted the dish it accompanied. In some cases (the Mosel, Germany 2012 Riesling Kabinett is an example) the wine was not stand-alone; it depended on the food to lift it.

Our meal ended with an invitation to the kitchen to meet Head Chef Greg Austin. Here we saw the kitchen in full operation with dishes being rushed out of the door every 15 seconds or so. But they were not so busy that they could not slip us a small treat which they called “marmalade on toast”.

This was perhaps the best meal we have ever had. When we went to the Fat Duck we were knocked out with the whole performance, which included the food. But we agreed that we would not see the point of doing (or seeing) the same performance again. We certainly would do The Ledbury again. In a heartbeat. And so should you.

The degustation unplugged

The menu.

The amuse bouche was not listed on the menu. There were seaweed crisps with a mussel cream,  rice cracker puffs with a creamy lobster filling, and crispy balls filled with brawn; warm and deeply piggy.

Powerfully flavoured tiny crunchy curled artichoke enhanced by a topping of frozen grated foie gras: magical.

Even the bread was lovely. The butter was in fact a smoked curd that was speckled with molasses.

This plate used to be succulent cuttlefish topped with garlic and cracked wheat with parsley cream.

This dish had the celeriac with the texture of silky tofu I referred to above. This they did by cooking it in a salted and herbed crust to 85 degrees C. I told you the staff were full of knowledge. This was served with egg, ham, arbors sabayon and crunchy black truffle. It is the only black truffle I have liked.

Clay-cooked cauliflower with lobster butter, basil sauce and toasted parmesan crumbs. You don't really need to say anything else.

This is an Agin Prune. This one is stuffed with partridge and turnip and was floating on an Earl Grey cream with tiny bacon specks. 

Friendly, helpful and cheery front of house staff make all the difference.

The main course was a fallow deer cutlet with a venison sausage perfectly teamed with rhubarb and radicchio. Brett Graham is a keen deer stalker so he knows his deery stuff. 

Cheese. French. Good.

Pre-dessert of kaffir lime ice cream with bergamot and tangy orange.

A banana and chocolate tartlet for the dessert proper. Beautifully constructed with chunky banana, velvety smooth chocolate with honeycomb crumbs. Not bad. Not bad at all. 

Petit fours. [L] Crunchy biscuits with soft fruit jelly and [R] the lightest of truffles.

And so, satisfactorily replete, we slept like tops.

Day 10: Of the great, the good and the plonkers

Charles James Fox (1749 – 1806) was one of the greatest politicians who never quite made it. He was a gambling addict, womaniser, debtor, and dandy. He was also a defender of civil liberty. He was overwhelmingly charismatic man. He was Britain's first Foreign Secretary a position he held 3 times in 1782, 1783 and 1806, but each time he used the position more successfully to fight for a constitutionally stronger Parliament than to achieve foreign policy aims.

He was a prominent and staunch opponent of George III, whom he regarded as an aspiring tyrant and he supported the American Patriots. Despite what you may have heard about William Wilberforce it was Fox who championed the abolition of the slave trade in the House of Commons. He proposed the bill that passed into law in 1807 as the Slave Trade Act though he did not live to see it pass.

I tell you all this not because I am off in la-la land but Charles James Fox is interred at Westminster Abbey where there is a fine memorial to him. It was to Westminster Abbey that we were headed this morning.

The marble statue of Charles James Fox features a kneeling black man, who is not chained by slavery but instead serves as the embodiment of freedom

This picture was taken
at Westminster Abbey.

You all know Westminster Abbey. It’s the place where, at the wedding of Prince William to Kate Middleton in 2011 the world was rocked on its axis caused by the sharp intake of breath by 500 million men at the sight of Pippa Middleton’s figure.

Westminster Abbey can trace its antecedence back a thousand years. Henry III began the present church in 1245. It has been the setting for every Coronation since 1066 and for numerous other royal occasions, including sixteen royal weddings. What many people don’t know is that it’s not an abbey. I didn’t know either. Between 1540 and 1556 the abbey had the status of a cathedral. Since 1560, however, the building is no longer an abbey or a cathedral, but has the status of a Church of England "Royal Peculiar". This means it is exempt from the jurisdiction of the diocese in which it lies and subject to the direct jurisdiction of the monarch.

The abbey

We set off at about 0930 at a cracking pace in search of fortification before we tackled the delights of the abbey that isn’t an abbey. We took bread in the Cellarium. This is described, somewhat fancifully, as “continuing the Benedictine tradition of providing hospitality”. You just have to pay for it now. The G took a bacon sandwich and some dangerous looking beetroot-based fruit effort and I took some granola and a more sensible fruity concoction.

The contrast with our recent time in India was marked. The Cellarium was quiet and peaceful and when I went to the loo there was not a man waiting to be given 5 rupees for the privilege of watching me pee..

The quire

Thus fortified we tackled the abbey. It was pretty busy as well as pretty expensive. In 1470 following Edward IV’s temporary fall from power, Elizabeth Woodville sought sanctuary in Westminster Abbey (where she gave birth to a son, Edward, later King Edward V of England). She’d be hard pressed these days: she would turn up and they would charge her £20 to get in. It’s a rum world where they charge you to go to church.

Nonetheless we were not after sanctuary, merely a trip round one of England’s finest monuments. The walls were packed with memorials of the great and the good, and presumably the not-so-good. I will not catalogue the entire set of memorials as you can find it here.

Adam Lindsay Gordon
(1833 –1870)

We cam across Poets’ Corner. Not every poet who has a memorial in Poets’ Corner is buried in the abbey. One such poet is Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833 –1870). He was an Australian poet, jockey and politician, though he was born in Fayal in the Azores. He went to Australia at the age of 20 in 1853. In 1864 he performed the daring riding feat known as Gordon's Leap on the edge of the Blue Lake in South Australia. There is an obelisk erected there has an inscription which reads:

"This obelisk was erected as a memorial to the famous Australian poet. From near this spot in July, 1864 Gordon made his famed leap on horseback over an old post and rail guard fence onto a narrow ledge overlooking the Blue Lake and jumped back again onto the roadway. The foundation stone of the Gordon Memorial Obelisk was laid on 8th July 1887”

The inscription reads “Adam Lindsay Gordon Poet of Australia Born 1833 Died 1870”. Interestingly, the sculptor was Lady Hilton Young who was the widow of Captain Scott of the Antarctic.

He was unlucky in love. He fell in love with a girl called Jane Bridges but he did not declare his feelings to her until it was too late and her affections were engaged elsewhere. He wrote in a poem called “To my sister”:

I loved a girl not long ago,

And, till my suit was told,

I thought her breast as fair as snow,

'Twas very near as cold ;

And yet I spoke with feelings more

Of recklessness than pain,

Those words I never spoke before,

Nor never shall again.

Anyway, this fellow has a memorial in Poets’ Corner though he is buried in Australia. In the list of people either buried or memorialised at Poets’ Corner I could not readily see another Australian. Yet I had never heard of him.

A memorial stone. Our Jonas must have been a dude in his day.

On our way out we checked out the Coronation Chair. The Coronation Chair was made for King Edward I (1239 – 1307, reigned 1272 – 1307)) to enclose the famous Stone of Scone, which he brought from Scotland to the Abbey in 1296. Keen readers of my outpourings will have heard of the Stone of Scone before. It’s supposed to be the stone that Jacob rested his head upon at Bethel. Anyway the stone was sent back to Scotland in 1996 but will be returned for any future coronation, assuming of course that Scotland is still in the Union and recognising England’s monarch as its Head of State.

The chair looks decidedly uncomfortable. The G, always the outgoing conversationalist, locked one of the red-cloaked guides (they must have a proper title) in banter. He drew our attention to the back of the chair which, he noted, is covered in graffiti. While Oliver Cromwell was the Protector (1653 – 1658) the chair was placed into storage. This is when the graffiti was added. On the restoration Charles II wanted the chair restored to its former glory but Parliament refused to do this. The graffiti served as a reminder that the King was there to serve the people.

This story may be true but it may not be. The abbey website says “most of the graffiti on the back part of the Chair is the result of Westminster schoolboys and visitors carving their names in the 18th and 19th centuries”. I think I prefer the former story apocryphal though it may be.

The Coronation Chair. Many a Monarch’s bottom has warned its seat.

We emerged from the Abbey into a beautiful English February morning with a clear blue sky and only a whisper of a breeze. We ambled over Westminster Bridge (which was packed with tourists) and walked along Jubilee Walk toward Lambeth Bridge. Lambeth Bridge is a monument of early-mid 20^th Century engineering. It was opened in 1932 and it is painted mainly in red, the same colour as the leather benches in the House of Lords which is at the southern end of the Palace of Westminster nearest the bridge. Westminster Bridge, over which we had just strolled, is painted predominantly green, the same colour as the benches in the House of Commons at the northern end of the Houses of Parliament.

As we crossed the road to get a picture we caused to stop a Jaguar with the rego AUS 1. Resplendent in the back were our very own Australian High Commissioner (Alexander Downer) and his missus. We waved but they did not wave back. They must not have noticed us.

Lambeth Bridge. Painted mainly red to demonstrate that it may be peerless among river crossings. Or it may not be.

A reminder of former glories
when ICI ruled the world
(or at least my world at the time)

Just by the northern end of Lambeth Bridge is Millbank House which was the Corporate HQ of ICI. I worked for ICI between 1973 and 1984 and visited Millbank House on several occasions. I noticed the letters ICI on a shield on the wall of the building whick leads me to suppose that Millbank House was built for ICI soon after it was created in 1926.

A little further along is the Buxton Memorial Fountain. The Buxton Memorial Fountain is a memorial commemorating the emancipation of slaves in the British Empire in 1834. Wikipedia says “it was commissioned by Charles Buxton MP, and was dedicated to his father Thomas Fowell Buxton along with William Wilberforce, Thomas Clarkson, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Henry Brougham and Stephen Lushington, all of whom were involved in the abolition”.

The Buxton Memorial; the Victorians did this sort of thing rather well.

Thomas Babington Macaulay: arch-plonker

It does not mention Charles James Fox. It should do. But note the reference to Thomas Charles Babington. He is the plonker we met in an earlier post and I noticed his memorial at the foot of Joseph Addison’s statue in Poets’ Corner in the Abbey. The gravestone reads:

“Thomas Babington Lord Macaulay. Born at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire October 25 1800. Died at Holly Lodge, Campden Hill December 28 1859. His body is buried in peace but his name liveth for evermore”.

A memorial bust on the pillar nearby is of white marble by sculptor George Burnard, 1866. The inscription simply reads MACAULAY. Pompous get.

We were due to meet my sister Ali for tea at Browns later in the afternoon and we duly sallied forth, getting completely lost in our search for St James’ Park tube station. Browns dates from 1837, the year Victoria ascended to the throne so it can claim to be Victorian. The G thought she had seen that it was London’s first hotel but it may share that honour with Claridges (the London Claridges, not the Delhi Claridges). Anyway, afternoon tea at Browns is a must: we did it 5 years ago when we were over and The G decided that it should be done again. The G decided on something called the Tea-Tox Healthy Afternoon Tea which consisted of:

• Smoked chicken and guacamole on spelt bread
• Poached salmon and dill crème fraiche on dark rye bread
• Chicory leaf with smoked mackerel and a soft-boiled quail’s egg
• Gem heart leaf with tabbouleh
• Cranberry jelly (cranberry juice, vegetarian gelatine, sugar free xylitol)
• Chocolate tulipe (A dark chocolate cup filled with crème fraiche & British blueberries)
• Mango & coconut rice conde (chilled & set coconut milk rice pudding with an agar agar (vegetarian) mango gel glaze, topped with toasted coconut flakes)
• Chocolate - raspberry soya slice (A velvet cream slice made with custard enriched 'valrhona' xocoline (sugar free chocolate), dark chocolate cream, layered with a gluten free sponge)
• Seasonal fruit sorbet (seasonal fruit, water, stabilizer, sugar free xylitol, glucose)
• Fruit skewers with yoghurt and honey

A pair of people hiding behind a Browns afternoon tea selection. And well may they hide: greedy wretches.

And, of course, a commendable choice of teas. An absolute snip at £47.50. They keep filling your plate until you can eat no more. Ali and I had the standard afternoon: no pretensions toward healthy eating for my sister and me. I shall be seeing my sister again on Sunday for a family luncheon in Northampton.

The G at Browns hiding behind a bush.

We were due to go to see Cirque Berserk at the Peacock Theatre at Holborn. The blurb says that Cirque Berserk showcases “the finest in traditional circus thrills and skills, Cirque Berserk! (there is in fact a “!” at the end of the name) brings this treasured form of live entertainment bang up-to-date in a jaw-dropping spectacular – created especially for the theatre”.

Proof that we bought a ticket to Cirque Berserk! though not proof we went. In fact it's no proof at all; we could have found the ticket.

It’s an easy tube ride from where we’re staying to Holborn and we were there in a flash without getting lost. We were travelling between 1830 and 1900 on the Central Line and it was absolutely packed. The sad thing is that I used to take the Central line at about that time daily (perhaps a bit earlier) and I thought that the press of humanity was normal. Holborn always reminds me of Holborn Viaduct which was built between 1863 and 1869. It was right next to the Coopers & Lybrand office I was based in when I joined them in 1989 and it was undergoing its first major renovation in 120 years. It is a tribute to Victorian engineering.

Holborn Viaduct: a tribute to Victorian engineering

Be all that as it may, the show was entertaining and successfully detracted from the supremely uncomfortable seats. We were in the front row of the dress circle so had an unimpeded view of the action. We did not need dinner after the massive collation at Browns so we were straight to bed on our return. Except for me. I have blogging to catch up on!

A harmless drudge at work