A Friday in London
Holiday Day Five
Covent Garden and bears
Our basement room at the Drury Lane Travelodge wasn’t as bad as it might sound. It was a large-ish room with a decent bathroom, a comfortable bed and a view of the pylons holding up the building above in what I first thought was an underground car park – but we weren’t there for the vista. The best thing was, there was no door on the wardrobe, an intended design feature which meant we weren’t going to leave any jackets behind. It was also very quiet.
The next day we hit the streets early in the morning, which was bright and chilly. While in town, I wanted to take a few shots of buildings featured in my Victorian mysteries series. So I dragged Neil over to the Royal Opera House, Bow Street police station, the Garrick Club, the National Gallery, and later, the Ivy.
We started the day, though, around Covent Garden where we stumbled upon the Paddington shop, and of course, the bear wanted to meet everyone and have a look around. We rescued a travelling companion for him, ‘Padders’ or ‘Paddette’ or ‘Honestly, Neil, really?’ or whatever we called him, and he joined us for an orange juice at Tuttons on the piazza to settle in before accompanying us on the rest of the trip. Or it might have been the Dirty Martini Bar attached to Tuttons, either way, we sat outside, and they had lovely restrooms.
Tuttons was established and named in the 1970s, and is on the site of Russel Chambers, a much earlier building which burned down in a fire and was reopened in 1887 as a hotel. Covent Garden was laid out by Inigo Jones in 1631, and famous for its fruit and veg market of My Fair Lady fame. In the mid to late 19th century, one of the Covent Garden buildings had metal columns supporting the apex roof, and at the base of these hollow columns, there were holes. These were used by homeless children and teenagers who would squeeze through the holes and climb the columns to live and sleep safely beneath the roof. They were known locally as ‘The Holes’, for obvious reasons. I came across that snippet in my Clearwater research, and have used it in my soon to be released Clearwater prequel. But back to the story…
A posh lunch
We wandered for most of the day, from Covent Garden to Soho to Oxford Street via the backstreets, had a roam around and back again for a freshen-up. We had, months previously, booked seats to see Blithe Spirit at the Duke of York’s theatre, and our Symi friend Ann was due to join us. We’d also booked a table at Brasserie Zedel for a late lunch before heading to see the play. However, the advice at the time was for the over somethings (can’t remember if it was over 60 or over 70 or over the hill) to stay at home. Thus, Ann had to cancel her afternoon and evening with us. We found a replacement for the show ticket but not the lunch, in the form of an old school friend of mine we’ll meet later.
We’d never been to Zedel’s, but knew we ought to dress for the occasion so we didn’t feel out of place among the grandeur as it’s a posh bistro. While having a pre-late-lunch drink upstairs, I heard back from another old school friend of mine who was vaguely invited to join us for a reunion on Sunday (we’re on Friday now, btw). He, another Neil, was probably not going to make it, but, it transpired, sent me the message from the theatre seat he was currently occupying, waiting for a matinee to start. The fun fact here is, he was seeing a preview of Pretty Woman at the Piccadilly Theatre which was (still is) about ten yards away from Zedel’s. I could see it through the window. Sadly, his interval didn’t coincide with our being so close, so we never caught up with that dodgy tale from the past.
Another oddment. The bar is decorated with old cabaret posters as the brasserie is also a cabaret venue. This led me to reminisce about a godmother who had been an opera singer and chorus girl back in the sepia days. The Dowager Lady Alvingham (Auntie Dolly to us), was a friend of Piaf and also Mistinguett, and as we rounded the corner to go down to the dining room, who should be watching over us but…
An Evening at the Theatre
After grappling with a menu entirely in French and with no pictures, lunch was done, and the bank account depleted as much as we were repleted. We wandered back to St Martin’s Lane to exchange our E-tickets at the theatre and meet the mad old school friend, Sally. Sally’s arrival anywhere always takes the edge of any concerns one has about lack of conversation or laughter, and as soon as she popped up out of the crowd, we picked up on a conversation we’d been having ten years previously; or at least, that’s how it felt. Avoiding as many people as we could, we did the pre-show G&T thing, admired the Chinese ladies wearing masks and thought nothing of it as that’s quite common, but were, by then carrying hand-san and doing the don’t touch the bannisters thing. The neat thing here is, Sally’s husband is the chief virologist at a top London hospital (and she is a very experienced nurse in that dept.), and we were given all the info on the virus and what was likely to happen. As they say, it’s not what you know but who, and so far, his predictions have come true.
Blithe Spirit and Old Mrs Plummet
Blithe Spirit and I have some connections in rather odd ways. For a start, Noel Coward was a friend of the people that once owned a house I grew up in, and he used to visit there, long before our time of course. Then, he had a house overlooking Romney Marsh, and I used to cycle by it regularly going up Lympne Hill. He had a house in St Margaret’s Bay, and I lived on the cliffs above.
I appeared as Charles in an am-dram version of Blithe Spirit when I was 18 which was odd as I was playing the 40-something-year-old Charles (the Noel Coward part if you like), my second wife, Ruth, was 45 and my dead wife, Elvira, was 17. Madam Arcarti couldn’t learn lines, I had something like 54 pages of dialogue out of 58, which I managed, but ended up having to adlib around hers in several scenes.
On one locally famous occasion, we performed the play in the old folks’ home in New Romney. In the séance scene, Madam Arcarti has a line (allegedly in our production), ‘Are you old Mrs Plummet?’ to which there is no answer. Except, in our case, there happened to be a slightly deaf Mrs Plummet at the back of the room who voiced her reply with, ‘Yes, dear?’ The scene continued, only to be interrupted again by ‘Yes, dear?’ which developed into a confusion of ‘I heard my name,’ and ‘Is it time for my pills?’ I think she’d been led away by the time Elvira appeared, I don’t know, I was too busy trying not to laugh.
Where was I? Oh, yes. I’m pleased to say that despite the heckling, I gained good reviews from the local press. You know the kind of thing, ‘Young Mr Cowlings (59) shows great comedic timing…‘ That kind of thing. Oh, I also lived around the corner from where Noel Coward was born, and he died on the night of my 10th birthday. There, the similarities end.
The last production of Blithe Spirit I’d seen was in 1986 at the Vaudeville Theatre, where the cast included Simon Cadel as Charles (Hi Di Hi), Marcia Warren as Madam Arcarti, Jane Asher as Ruth, and Joanna Lumley as Elvira. Fitting then, that the production we saw that night starred Jenifer Saunders as Madam Arcarti. I have to say, it was the best production I’ve ever seen (our own am-dram hit aside). Directed by Richard Ayre and with a stunning set and cast, it included all manner of stage trickery but was also presented in a raw, real voice. Hard to explain, but even the lesser characters had background stories that somehow came out in their reactions and interactions, and the play had more depth than even the Oscar-winning film.
It was a great show and worth the £125.00 per ticket for the front of the circle. How much?! I know, I found it hard to swallow, except I fully support the theatre and, lets’ face it, hadn’t spent money on a show for about 18 years. When I saw it in 1986 it probably cost a fiver or something, and when we did it in a church hall/Nissan hut in 1981, tickets only cost 75p with concessions for OAPS and a cup of tea thrown in. Except for that rowdy old bird, Mrs Plummet. She was banned.
Being an Ab Fab groupie
After the show, we said goodbye to Sal as we were seeing her again in two days, and one can only take so much laughter in one night, and set out being a groupie for the first time in our lives. Ever. Honest. We wanted to get Ms Saunders’ autograph in our programme as a present for Jenine, and hung about the stage door with a couple of lasses from Glasgow who’d come down for the night to see the show, had more laughs and finally, had an audience with Madam Arcarti over a barrier in St Martin’s Lane. Well, Neil did, I was in charge of taking dodgy photos. After that thrill, it was back to the dungeon via the hotel bar, for a good night’s sleep. It was needed. Saturday would bring a day of walking for miles, flash mob dancing, top hats, phantoms and a decent West End punch-up, all of which will be discussed tomorrow.
And a bonus photo of some old show a friend of mine was in 100 years ago.
