Our wake-up call never comes but thankfully Mom wakes up at 6:15 AM. We rush to catch the 7:00 AM train. We get no shower, no coffee, but we make the train.
Our train leaves Edinburgh, then Dunbar and Burnmouth, then Scotland altogether. We cross the border at Berwick-upon-Tweed and ride along the North Sea to Newcastle, then York, and finally arrive at King’s Cross station in London. We take a taxi to our hotel. The driver says, “Thanks, love,” when I give him the address. Brian gives him a nice tip for schlepping our luggage and he says, “Thanks, mate,” about four times.
The hotel, near Paddington station, is kind of dingy and smoky. It has one double bed and a twin all in the same room with the bathroom. The bathroom is so tiny, Mom says, “You can’t change your mind in it.” There is a shower, sink, and toilet in a space about as big as a closet. It’s cramped, but the sheets are clean and the proprietors friendly.
The weather is incredibly warm and humid. Brian says to make a note for our future travelogue to bring a portable fan for those old hotels that don’t have air conditioning.
We head to the theater where we are to see the Importance of Being Earnest; the tickets, an early Christmas gift from Brian. It stars the amazing Patricia Routledge, of Keeping up Appearances, a long-running British comedy, and I am eager to see it.
I read in my Majesty magazine that for her 99th birthday in August, the Queen Mother saw the play and reportedly enjoyed it very much.
The theater—the Royal Haymarket—is near Piccadilly Circus. It takes us a while with the A-Z to get oriented. We pick up our tickets and grab some lunch. We walk around the block to stretch our legs and pop in the back entrance to the National Gallery museum shop. As we leave the shop, I look down a narrow alley and see St. Martins-in-the-field church. I am just a block from where I was last weekend near Trafalgar Square and the National Portrait Gallery.
The theater is opulent—in the decorative style of Louis XIV with rich, red brocades, gold cherubs, and the gold-leaf Royal crest of King George V and Queen Mary above the stage. We are in the first row of the lower balcony, which I take pleasure in seeing is called the Royal Circle.
The show is hugely funny. Oscar Wilde called it, “A trivial comedy for serious people.” Patricia Routledge superbly plays the overbearing Lady Bracknell to the point of absurdity, just as Wilde intended mocking the upper-class morals of the day. We all love it.
One theater critic writes of Ms. Routledge’s performance:
Her voice, an effortful monotone with a dying fall on each punchline, seems to emanate from somewhere deep in her bustle. When Jack stutters out his origins as a foundling in a piece of left luggage, Routledge’s eyelids droop, her head quivers, and the appalled line—“a handbag”—creeps out like a death rattle.
During intermission, we have ice cream. Brian and I are amazed that we can take the ice cream inside. In the US, the ice cream would be smeared over the seats, dripped on the floor, and empty cups littered everywhere. Here, the theater patrons eat it neatly and properly dispose of the containers.
After the play, we walk through Piccadilly Circus, down Piccadilly Street, to Fortnum and Masons. A landmark itself, F&M sells gourmet foods; everything from quail eggs to Scotch eggs, to foie and Stilton. We laugh at some of the products nestled among the upscale British marmalades and shortbread—spreadable frosting in a can, Nescafe instant coffee, and peanut butter. Is it a nod to US expatriates? We pick up a few nibbles and bring them back to our room for a light dinner.
We are all tired. Brian falls asleep at 8:15 PM but of course denies having been asleep when he wakes a few minutes later.
We miss the bagpipes.
Jody’s UK Memories 