Holiday Day seven (March 8^th) London

Sunday was to be our last day in London before setting off to Canada on Monday morning, and it was to be a day of past-blasts and a reunion, so please forgive the rambling reminiscences that follow.

Morning dawned early and surprisingly headache-free. The day had been set aside for one main event, a small reunion of friends and family at the Punch & Judy pub in Covent Garden at 2 pm, and as we’re early risers, we had the entire morning to ourselves. That was, apart from breakfast where we skulked around hoping to avoid ‘mistaken identity busty broad from Bradford’, or wherever it was, and her ‘still in shock’ husband, in case they favoured house red for breakfast rather than tea. Apparently, they didn’t favour breakfast at all, and we managed a circuit of the buffet and a couple of trips to the coffee machine without incident. Having walked over 10 miles the day before, we opted for a localised wander and headed out into another clear but chilly morning.

The peaceful West End

Everyone should experience the West End early on a Sunday morning, there’s an air of peace that’s pleasantly out of place. Maybe it’s the feeling of tall, old and sturdy buildings looking down on you, or the emptiness of wide roads, but you get a sense of ‘something happened last night, and now it’s gone.’ What you knew to be teaming streets, glittering theatres, crowded bars and steaming food stalls are still there, but they’re not doing anything. They’re not exactly asleep either, as you know they will come alive again in a few hours, and soon, you won’t be able to amble across a road, you’ll have to look both ways and hope for the best. The air smells fresher, though is still tinted with ‘city’, and as if some magic wand has been waved, what were littered gutters and choked roads are miraculously clean and deserted.

When I first moved to London in the 80s and was waiting to start a job with Lambeth Council, I had three months with little money and plenty of free time. I used to wake early and wander from Clapham towards the river and over, and keep walking. One morning, I found myself in Baker Street by about eight, and it must have been a Sunday because everywhere was similarly deserted, and I felt like I had the whole city to myself. Well, it was a similar feeling on our last day in London.

We’d heard of a Steampunk market held in the grounds of St James’ Church, Piccadilly, and thought we may as well wander down there to take a look. The route took us through Leicester Square where we stumbled upon a practically perfect statue of Mary Poppins and stopped for a photo-op.

Wandering in the Past

That’s another thing about returning to a place you used to know well; I still did. I can’t remember how long it took me to find my way around London when I was 24, not long, I think, and somehow, when you live in a city, you absorb the place, and understand how it works without question. That’s why I knew where I was going, and couldn’t help but point out places of interest as we walked. The Swiss Centre was on that corner, and that’s where I saw my first Liam Neesom film, ‘Lamb’, many years ago. The Hippodrome was ‘The Talk of the Town’, and there’s a Sunday Times magazine somewhere with photos of my uncle and godmother taking cocktails there, her in her tiara, him in his dinner suit. That was sometime in the 1960s, I think, and they went home afterwards on his 900cc motorbike. ‘That’s where I saw ‘City of Angels in 1993,’ was another on my guided reminiscence tour.

It got kinda weird as we walked Piccadilly towards the church. My godfather (not related to Her Ladyship, the godmother), used to ‘Work the Dilly’ in the 1930s, taking his patch along the south side, while opposite worked a ‘Nasty queen, we never liked her’, Quentin Crisp. They were both, at the time, what we’d now call rent boys. As I walked, I remembered interviewing Uncle Bob (‘Babs’ was his professional name both on the Dilly and, later, in the Royal Navy and after that, as the head housekeeper of the Hyde Park Hotel). He wanted to write down his life story and, as he got older, I ended up compiling his memoirs with him. He even came to Symi for two weeks and worked on telling me the stories. But I am, again, digressing.

Anyway, the Steampunk market wasn’t open; we were far too early anyway, but we were very pleased to read this sign on the church gates.

Photo-ops and Odd Connections

We wandered the Dilly (similarly to my godfather but not for the same reason), and headed back towards Covent Garden for a coffee at Tuttons. By then, Neil had posted Mary Poppins on Facebook, and as we walked, we had a message from Sall who you met at the theatre the other evening. She directed us back to Leicester Square where, if we cared to hunt, we would find other fun statues. And guess what? We did.

‘There’s a lovely old street I want to walk down,’ I declared afterwards. ‘It’s on our way, just over the road… Oh!’ And here comes another Symi connection story.

Showing at the Garrick Theatre back in March, was a production of City of Angels. The original London run was in 1993, as I mentioned just now, and appearing in it was a very fine actress/singer/dancer called Jeanette Ranger. I didn’t know it at the time, as I watched, enthralled, that 20 years later, she and I would be living on the same Greek island, and I would have the pleasure of playing piano for her when she came to the house regularly to keep up her singing.

And, if you want more of these odd connections (this is, after all, a day for reminisces and reunions), how about this one? In 1986, I went to one of the previews for ‘Chess’ the Tim Rice/Benny and Bjorn musical at the Prince Edward Theatre. Great show and I went back a couple of weeks after the run opened. Again, I didn’t know it then, but 20 or so years later, I’d be dancing in the Jean & Tonic bar with one of the dancers I saw on the stage that night (and later in a production of West Side Story at her Majesty’s), Jane, who used to have the Sunflower in Yialos.

Another connection. Uncle Bob of the Dilly later bought a house in Clapham and used to throw parties. I think he was still, surreptitiously, doing his ‘old job’, but let’s not go there. One famous party he threw was for the dancers from the original London run of West Side Story (1959 to 1961, also at Her Majesty’s) – and that’s as much as I am allowed to tell you.

And, for another name-drop, I once interviewed Michael Cashman at the Garrick Theatre. I was doing some volunteer writing work for what was then NALGO, and the insidious Section 28 was in place, so it was a political interview. Very nice chap he is too, Barron Cashman as he is now, and Sir Ian (just Ian, as he was then), popped his head into the dressing room to say hello. But, again, I digress.

Mad Hatters and Paddington ready for his close-up

Meanwhile, on our way to Covent Garden, we walked down Great Newport Street (I think it’s called), the one where there are antiquarian bookshops and a rather Dickensian feel. It was still early, and so deserted, apart from Alice and the Mad Hatter. Well, one always expects the unexpected in London, but I didn’t expect to see these two life-sized characters taking tea outside a bookshop at nine on a Sunday morning. We had to stop and ask if Little Pad could have a photo-op with them, and they obliged. They also did a fair amount of looking beyond us to the other side of the street, and I couldn’t work out why, until a film director tapped us on the shoulder with a cameraman hovering behind.

Apparently, they were making a promo or music video or maybe just a fetish flick, I don’t know, but we were apologetic as we’d not seen them lurking in a doorway, but they were charming. Actually, the director said, ‘Would you mind if we filmed you two walking with your Paddingtons? Only body-shots, so no need to sign any release forms.’ ‘As long as we can keep our clothes on.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Never mind. Yes, do.’ So, we wandered Great Newport Street with the Paddingtons poking out of our pockets and, somewhere in the world, there’s a video of the boys being carried towards morning coffee.

After which, we did more aimless wandering, admired shop fronts, and slowly, Covent Garden market came to life. We ‘did’ that, checked out the Punch & Judy to see what time it opened, and finally, around 1.30, called in and found an upstairs banquette where we and our expected party could spend the afternoon.

Friends old and new

I am now very much in danger of falling too far down the rabbit hole that is memory lane and boring you (if I haven’t already), so I’ll keep it brief. Ha!

As we were only in London for a couple of days, we’d said, rather generally, ‘We’re going to be here at this time if anyone wants to meet up.’ That’s much easier than trying to allot slots and whiz from A to Z meeting someone here for ten minutes and someone there for five.

One by one, friends and family arrived. My nephew George, who some of you might know from when he briefly worked at To Spitiko in Yialos, his partner came too. Then Neil’s sister, who, again, is a fairly regular Symi visitor, and her partner. Sall from the other night whose husband, sadly, couldn’t make it because he’d just come off a three-day (or longer), non-stop shift in the virus ward, after working 24 hours a day, as hospital staff do. Then came Neil’s first ever girlfriend from junior school, Tanya, and two of my best friends from my school days, Simon and Andrew. Oh, and there was also a stray woman whose name I can’t remember, but who slipped into our banquette, presumably wanting company or warmth, and joined in our reunion even though no-one had a clue who she was. She was very understanding though, and ended up taking blurred photos for us in return for the occasional drink. Bless.

What can you say when you meet up with your old best-buds from when you were 16? Apart, that is, from ‘Oh my God, how old are we now?’ and ‘Has it really been 40 years?’

Actually, it hadn’t been that long since we last met. I saw Simon a couple of years ago back on Romney Marsh, and Andrew and I last saw each other in the 90s when he had a recording studio in West London. Since then (he writes, beaming with pride) Andrew’s been working as a producer/composer at Abbey Road, and in India where his company is at the forefront of booking, producing and arranging for, some of India’s top musicians. He also recently wrote the music for the stage production of ‘The Life of Pi’ which was staged at The Crucible, Sheffield in 2019. It was set to transfer to the West End in June 2020, but the bloody virus brought the curtain down on that, for now at least. When at school, I always thought that I’d get to the West End before he did, but clearly, I was pleasantly wrong. (You can’t count a week-long run of a dreadful cabaret musical I was involved in at the Actors’ Centre off Cambridge Circus in the 90s, where often there were more of us on stage than there were in the audience. It had a cast of three.)

It was a fabulous afternoon of catching up, staring at each other in disbelief, and gulping gin and tonic. Rather, gulping at the price of a gin and tonic; London’s not Symi, is it? As the afternoon continued, and some people had to leave, we said farewells to all but family. Six of us went for an Italian meal at a restaurant in St Martin’s Lane where I’d once been brought forward from the back of the queue because the doorman thought I was Bruno Brookes. I know, I’m full of these kinds of name-drop tales, but when you live in London and hang out ‘up west’ these things are bound to happen.

After dinner, us ‘boys’ went to Village Soho. Us, to pretend we were 25 again, and George and Ian to pretend we werent with them.

Towards Canada – almost

Okay, so I’m going to have to leave you now, and you leave us wandering back to our hotel for packing and an early night as our taxi is booked, and we’re due at Heathrow at 8.30 tomorrow. Yes, we are finally, after one week on the road, heading off to Canada. We must meet our Great Rail Journeys tour guide by nine at the latest as our flight is at midday.

Before I go, I will mention that, at this point, the West End streets were still teeming, life was going on as usual apart from more hand washing and being aware of door handles, and although cases were rising around the world, there was still only one in Canada. Had we cancelled, our insurance company would not have covered us. It was too late by then anyway, Paddington had already packed himself away.

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Food, Feet and Phantoms: A day in London

Holiday day six

Saturday morning in London

We woke up in our subterranean car park-effect hotel room with the knowledge that we had a whole day in town ahead of a show in the evening. So, what to do? We’d thought about spending the day shopping, but kind of said, ‘Nah’ to that and went for breakfast.

It was a typically British affair of eggs, bacon and talking about other guests behind their backs. The Travelodge is one of those practical hotels that attract all sorts. You find yourself among businessmen in for a conference, people down for the weekend to catch a show and see the sites, students and backpackers, old and young alike. Well, at such reasonable prices (for the heart of London), and within walking distance of West End theatres and the major attractions, it’s hardly surprising it’s always so popular. It does have the ring of student halls about it, and the young, cheerful and assured staff have something to do with that.

Breakfast done, we decided to spend the morning walking. I lived in London for about 14 years and only ‘did’ the sites when I had guests from New Zealand. Something of an extreme, I know, but I’d never walked the north riverbank, and keen to stroll, we set off to the Tower two and a half miles away. I wanted a photo of the Lyceum Theatre to go with my Clearwater collection, and that was at the end of the street.

The theatre appears in book five of my series, ‘Bitter Bloodline’ and features Henry Irving and his theatre manager, Bram Stoker, he of Dracula fame. (They are unwittingly involved in an assassination plot and the story takes us from Clearwater’s country home in Cornwall to the tunnels that run between the Lyceum and the Opera House (fictional, as far as I know), and includes a race by train, Sir Arthur Sullivan and a bottle of wine mentioned in ‘Dracula’, but that’s another story.)

Sewers and stuff

After the Lyceum, our route took us down to the Embankment. Did you know, you probably did, that before 1864 (ish) there was no embankment. The back of Somerset House opened directly onto the Thames, and you can still see the original steps down from the house to the river in Embankment Gardens. From there to the river, now, is the Embankment as we know it. This extra piece of reclaimed land came about because of the ‘Silent Highwayman’ and the ‘Great Stink’ of 1858. In a nutshell, London’s sewer system was crap, and the Thames was mainly effluent, leading to disease (the Silent Highwayman, i.e. Death from the river), and a pong. When the smell became too much for the men sitting in Parliament, and even lime-drenched curtains couldn’t keep the smell of other people’s proceedings from House proceedings, Parliament did something about it. Joseph Bazalgette designed a new sewer system, and part of that runs along the side of the Thames, and the Embankment is built over it.

Back to the story. Along the way, we stopped for photos and to show the Paddington boys some of the sites, and introduce them to some new friends.

We passed various places of interest including, Temple, HQS Wellington, Blackfriars and the end of the original River Fleet (now under Fleet Street and others), and a hotel I can’t remember the name of that had these rather apt bubbles for the users of its café. I wonder if, when designed, they knew something we didn’t…

Continuing on, taking a detour around Broken Wharf House and other buildings that block the river path, re-joining the path and wandering on, we came across a mosaic mural that gave the history of London through the ages. This little gem is tucked away, but worth a look as the further you walk, the more up to date it becomes – depending on your direction of travel. We noted with interest that after Dick Whittington, Mayor of London came ‘Plague strikes again’, closely followed by the peasants’ Revolt, and I can’t help wondering if history is now repeating itself. Your PM was once Mayor of London (I inserted a Dick reference there, but took it out) and is now ineffectually dithering with a ‘plague’ and a certain amount of revolt by people he no doubt sees as peasants. If that is the case, take heart, because the section about the revolt states, ‘City looted + some officials executed.’

Tower Hill

Moving on… We finally came to the Tower on this grey and chilly morning and decided against going in, thanks to the cost.

By then, we were hankering for a kebab. No offence to the Greek giros, but when you used to live just off the Balls Pond Road, and you’ve not had a decent Turkish kabab for 18 years, and suddenly you can, well, these things must be done. We chatted to the guys at the Greek food stall under Tower Bridge but then had to hide from them as we edged closer to the Turkish stall next door. I have to say, a massive wrap with all the bits and pieces and chilli sauce was more than welcome.

Coffee, check. Kebab, check. Paid the check, check. Walk across Tower Bridge, check. Tourist photos, check. What next? The same journey but in reverse and on the other side of the river. Oh, talking of Tower Bridge, we found this plaque among many commemorating those who had built and worked on the bridge since it was started in 1886, opened in 1894 and ever since. (It too makes an appearance in a Clearwater book, while under construction in 1889.)

Southbank

The southside walk is more interesting than the north bank walk, what with the Globe theatre, street entertainers and the like. Of particular interest was the Horniman At Hay’s, simply because of the double entendre.

More necessary was a pit stop at a riverside pub for a glass of something and a resting of the feet. Did you know that ‘the Resting of the Feet’ was a Christmas tradition started in 1392 by Richard II? No, no-one did because I just made it up to make sure you were paying attention.

As you are, you can play ‘Where’s Wally’ and find Paddington

Still moving on, the boys enjoyed the views, buskers and bubbles and we enjoyed the walk which took us all the way to the South Bank complex and the Hungerford Bridge.

Walking across the bridge, I couldn’t help wonder about suicides, mainly because of this rather tragic stuffed hound who had, it seemed, reached the end of his lead and given himself up to the river only to miss his target. Poor thing.

Across the river and where to next? It was mid-afternoon by now, and we’d walked over five miles on concrete, and the feet, and now the back, needed another resting. We called into an old haunt from my London days, a pub called The Halfway To Heaven in Duncannon Street, and another half-mile was added to our total. Nothing had changed since the 90s when I used to pop in for a chat and drink when on a night out in the West End, which was strangely reassuring, and we sat at the window so the boys could watch the world go by. What did go by wasn’t so much the world, but a joyous, dancing and rather random part of it as a group appeared and flash-mobbed us. I call it that because I don’t know what else to call it when a group of teenagers and an instructor stop in the street and suddenly start dancing for you. It was very entertaining, though, and a pleasure to see. Some kind of new trend since my day, says the grumbling old man who secretly wanted to join in.

Upwards and onwards, and another half-mile back to the hotel to shower, change and prepare for a night at the opera…

The Admiral Duncan

On the way to Her Majesty’s Theatre, we stopped off at another old haunt of ours, The Admiral Duncan. This pub was the scene of tragedy on 30^th April 1999, when a madman set off a nail bomb. [The bomb was the third to be planted in a one-man campaign by a Neo-Nazi, David Copeland, who was attempting to stir up ethnic and homophobic tensions. Copeland’s previous bomb attacks, on 17 April in Brixton, south London and on 24 April in Hanbury Street in Whitechapel, east London, had made Londoners wary.] That night, I was rehearsing with my cabaret partner down in Brighton, and his partner and Neil had arranged to meet up at the Duncan for a drink. Their meeting was called off a couple of hours before the bomb went off. There for the grace of…

We called in and ordered a couple of glasses of pre-show wine. I was on the verge of paying the barman when some straight guy told a lesbian that ‘All you need is the right man,’ and presumably offered his services. All hell broke loose. Our barman, diminutive and slightly fay, was over that counter before you could say ‘mine’s a double’, the queens, bless ’em, dragged the str8 and his mates out into Compton Street, and within seconds, a police van had pulled up to much ‘Ooh,’ and ‘Hello…’ from inside. Calm was restored, and I hope the str8 got what he deserved (from the police if not the lesbians with whom, btw, one does not mess). We’d still not paid for our drinks, and when the barman had calmly tucked his hair behind his ears and reconnected with his charming smile, I went back to the bar to pay, asking if he was okay. I earnt myself a ‘Yes, thanks, darlin’. Bloody breeders.’ Nothing like a good West End fight to bring back fond memories of the old days.

Here’s another Wiki insert which I preface with: I have an alibi.

[The Admiral Duncan has been trading since at least 1832. In June of that year, Dennis Collins, a wooden-legged Irish ex-sailor living at the pub, was charged with high treason for throwing stones at King William IV at Ascot Racecourse. Collins was convicted and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered, as the medieval punishment for high treason was then still in effect. However, his sentence was quickly commuted to life imprisonment and he was subsequently transported to Australia.]

And on to the theatre.

The Phantom of the Opera

Now, here’s one of my connection stories. ‘Phantom’ opened on 9^th October 1986 when I was 23 (gulp). I was living in the Lake District at the time but bought a ticket and came down for the weekend to see the first Saturday performance on 11^th October. We saw it that Saturday night in March which turned out to be one of, if not the last Saturday performances of the show. I’d seen it several times because I like what the scenery does, but now, I’ve seen it between what you might consider remarkable bookends of a 34-year run.

The performance that night was just as good as the original with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman, if not better (in some cases), though I noted that health & safety had played its part over the years. The phantom didn’t descend on the proscenium angels, the fire-balls were damp squibs, and Raoul didn’t jump off the bridge into the misty waters. Shame. Mind you, the chandelier fell faster as if the flyman had said, ‘Sod it. I want a drink.’

An Accidental Cabaret

After that, we wandered back through a crowded, Saturday night West End, having decided that there was nowhere cheaper for a nightcap than our hotel. There, I bought the wine because a glammed-up woman in an outfit that barely contained the enthusiasm of flesh that was her bust had attached herself to Neil. I had no idea why until we were invited to sit with her and her husband and discovered she and Neil had chatted that morning over tea. The husband wore the dreamy smile of someone who had landed the prom queen and still couldn’t understand how but wasn’t going to question fate.

They’d come down from somewhere ‘up north’ to see Denise van Outen present Cabaret All Stars at 8, Victoria Embankment. (Bazalgette and his marvellous sewers came to mind, for without him, Ms v Outen wouldn’t have had a venue.) Anyway, this wonderful couple, him with his ‘Yes dear,’ and her with effulgent bust kept us entertained long into the night, and insisted on buying round after round until I was as tight as her gussets, and we had to bow out. Apparently, she’d taken to Neil that morning when they’d met at the tea urn or something, and fell upon us as ‘such nice boys’ in the way straight people do when they discover we’re not monsters.

The fun fact here is, Neil hadn’t met her over a tea urn and had no idea who she was. It was an unclear case of mistaken identity which sent us reeling to bed on a note as high as Christine’s at the end of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’, Act 1 scene 4. (Which, apparently, is a top E, and usually, the singer turns her back while a tape cuts in and the note you hear is Sarah Brightman recorded back in the 1980s. However, our Christine was so close to our front row dress circle seat, I could feel her breath, and she was facing front.)

Now then. I can’t continue this rambling adventure until Monday because tomorrow, I must write a blog on my other blog site at www.jacksonmarsh.com. There, I cover all kinds of things about what I am writing, researching and, in tomorrow’s case, what I’ve been doing this last week. So, if you came here for Symi news, sorry about that, and you’re more likely to find Symi updates tomorrow on my pen name pages.

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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 19^th 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 10^th 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.

 

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Holiday Day four

A morning in Central Athens

Day four of our trip was one of those ‘hanging around waiting for a plane’ days. We’d booked a Welcome Pickups very welcome pickup for after lunch, and being the early-bird kind of folk we are, had done the breakfast thing and were ready to head out by eight in the morning. It was a sunny day, and although early March, warm. We were to be blessed with (mainly) good weather for the next three weeks, but we didn’t know that at the time.

What we did know all to well was that the hotel we were staying at had lift music. Just like you see in comedy films, we’d press the button, wait for the whir and clunk, the doors would open, and we’d be greeted by a clanging rendition of The Girl From Ipanema and suchlike. It got to the point of having to cover our ears purely to remain sane or opting for the stairs, but it made us laugh because otherwise, you’d go mad. Lifts were also to play a major part in the days to come, and we’ll be returning to the subject in due course.

Syntagma Square

The first stop of the day was just around the corner and Syntagma Square to admire its emptiness at that time of day.

[Syntagma Square is the central square of Athens. The square is named after the Constitution that Otto, the first King of Greece, was obliged to grant after a popular and military uprising on 3 September 1843. It is located in front of the 19th century Old Royal Palace, housing the Greek Parliament since 1934.]

By the way, these snippets of info are from Wikipedia, so if they are not accurate, you can blame the worldwide know-it-all population who keep the pages updated. For us, it was a case of killing time while doing something of interest, so we watched the Evzonoi at the Parliament building for a while.

[The Evzones or Evzonoi were several historical elite light infantry and mountain units of the Greek Army. Today, they are the members of the Presidential Guard, a ceremonial unit that guards the Greek Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the Presidential Mansion in Athens.]

The National Garden

Okay, so square and Evzones ticked off the list, and onto the National Gardens, or rather, into them. I shan’t bother you with the basic Wiki definition of the… Okay then, I will, as it’s easier than writing it again. The National Garden is a public park of 15.5 hectares in the center of the Greek capital, Athens. It is located between the districts of Kolonaki and Pangrati, directly behind the Greek Parliament.

I’ve always found it a place of surprising tranquillity considering it’s bordered by wide roads and, at times, heavy traffic. It was still early morning by Greece standards, and there were only a few joggers, bird-feeders and yoga classes to disturb as we showed Paddington palm trees and parakeets, the petting zoo and the pond. We must have walked every path and seen every bush, which are labelled so you can read what they are, before we wandered past the Presidential Palace (more Evzones), and back around to Syntagma.

Coffee was taken at the quirky café whose name I can’t remember, but which offers all manner of delights, including a pavement-side view of a spat about parking. This entertainment, between a lorry driver and a fierce lady, included dialogue such as ‘why should you want to get that f*****g thing around that corner anyway, mal**a!’ which was very enjoyable and helped pass 15 minutes. (There was a lot of storming off and coming back, shouting at those trying to mediate and walking off again.) I didn’t dare take any photos.

To the airport

Back to the hotel to double-check the packing and make sure we’d not left jackets in wardrobes, that we had passports, tickets, money, bears, and that everything was paid for and we were free to go. Our taxi arrived ten minutes early, as they tend to do with that company, and we were whisked off to the airport. The usual Greek taxi interrogation ensued; where from, where going, what do you do, why Symi, how much do you earn, what’s the name of your first-born, and was it arrivals or departures? I can’t remember the cost, but it wasn’t much compared to lugging cases across the city. Mind you, I’ve been from Syntagma to the airport by bus before, and it’s not expensive and only takes about an hour or less, depending on traffic, and there’s always the underground for €10.00, but as I’ve said, it was one of those holidays.

Athens Airport has been voted one of the best in Europe, and I’ve always found it easy to handle and comfortable to wait in. It even has a museum to browse. As usual, we were there several hours before it was necessary, and had plenty of time to wander shops we’d wandered before, sit at cafés we knew, and generally poke around once our bags were checked in. It was an Aegean flight, so everything was on time and well organised, but we were checking the news as there was increasing talk of this virus thing that was spreading through Italy. Images of Rome deserted didn’t help our concerns that we might find London in the same state, but then it was still only ‘wash hands and try not to touch surfaces.’ Paddington, being a well-travelled bear, took further precautions.

He had a seat to himself on the flight, which was comfortable and on a new airbus that had a facility where you could track your journey, which I found fascinating.

We’d organised another taxi at the other end, though not through the same company, and it took a while to find the chap who was, allegedly waiting for us in a very quiet arrivals hall. We did meet in the end, though, and he whisked us off at incredible speed from Heathrow to the Covent Garden Travelodge which I’d used before. Except I hadn’t as it was a different one. Then it turned out to be the same one but another part of it, and once I’d seen the street sign for Drury Lane, I knew where I was, and Neil was happy. We were given a room in the basement which, at first, we approached with trepidation, but which in fact, turned out to be perfect. But more about that tomorrow.

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A Day in Athens

Holiday Day three

This day started with a discovery of something that wasn’t there if you can discover such a thing. The thing that wasn’t there was Neil’s jacket, which he’d not needed since Symi. We searched but decided that it was either still hanging on the back of a chair at the café by the quay in Symi, or was enjoying a sailing in the cabin wardrobe aboard the Blue Star Xios. When leaving a café or restaurant, I’m the kind of chap who checks that we’ve taken everything (furniture and fittings excepted), and I didn’t remember seeing it on the back of the chair in Symi. So, we assumed it was still on a voyage somewhere, never to be seen again. Never mind, there are plenty of shops in Athens, and we could pick up another one outside of our daily spending allowance because this was, after all, a one-off holiday.

Meanwhile, someone was more than happy to lie in bed and watch us hunt through the suitcases and check the cupboards for the fifth time in case it had magically reappeared.

 

This day was our only full day without arriving or departing, and after breakfast, we set off to take a wander around and see some sights we’d not seen before. If there’s a checklist to tick off, then we’d previously done things like the Acropolis and museum, National Park, Syntagma Square, Evzones, Ermu, Thissio market, Monistiraki and so on. Today, it was the turn of the Archaeological Museum which we found thanks to online maps and Jenine (who you can see photobombing this photo).

Central Municipal Market

From the hotel to the museum was a steady 2 Km walk past the new Omonia Square development (then, still behind boards), and the Central Municipal Market where we called in to look around and ‘enjoy’ the smell of fresh fish and dead animals. It reminded me of Billingsgate and Smithfield rolled into one. A far cry from our small fish market on the bridge on Symi and our ‘Super Markets’ which I’ve always thought of as absolutely super supermarkets so no need to split the word – but that’s what we do here in Greece. (Even the current track-and-trace system gives you the option to dial for permission to visit the super market, but that’s just me being pedantic.) Anyway, the market…

Along the route, we stopped for the obligatory frappe and Paddington joined us to rest his legs, and take a break in that most traditional of Greek male rituals…

Onwards, the trek took us via a leather shop for a new jacket for Neil and on to Plaza Kotzia. [Kotzia Square is a square in central Athens, Greece. The square retains several characteristics of 19th-century local neoclassical architecture, such as the City Hall of the Municipality of Athens and the National Bank of Greece Cultural Center. It is named after Konstantinos Kotzias, former Mayor of Athens.] And lots of pigeons.

Archaeological Museum

Paddington was more interested in the pigeons, but we dragged him away and made it to the Archaeological Museum for a good, foot-aching, walk around. It was a school day, and there were a few parties of younger children on a tour with a teacher, gawping at the massive naked statues, giggling at each one left ‘in tact’ and being told by Teach that it was perfectly artistic, and also rather rare. Apparently, Pope Pius IX (r. 1846 to 1878) was responsible for de-manning many ancient statues, taking Pope Clement XIII’s fetish for covering ‘bits’ with fig leaves one slip of the chisel further. But that may not be what happened to these Greek statues, and besides, many in this museum are still pene integrum, much to the delight of class 4b.

I digress. We saw plenty of other interesting sights, including this collection of busts which was, believe it or not, indoors.

In the evening

After a foot rest and an orange juice, we wandered back to Centrum, and, on the spur of the moment, booked a session with the barber around the corner where I had my first proper haircut in about 15 years, and Neil had a shave and trim, making us both feel more human and slightly pampered.

To celebrate, that evening we went to Ciel in Mitropoleos Square. That’s the square we were in last night where playetes were smashed in Summer, but rather than being on the ground, we were several storeys up in the air, as suggested by the name of the venue. Popular with the young (and us), this café, bar, restaurant has wonderful views towards the nearby Acropolis, though my phone camera and night shots don’t go hand in hand so well. It reminded me of when I was young(er) and used to go the Roof Gardens on top of what was Derry & Toms and, later, the Biba building in Kensington.

I’ll close the day with a slightly better shot, probably from Neil’s camera. Tomorrow, we have a morning in Athens before an afternoon flight to London and the second stage of the journey to, and back from, Canada.

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