10 June 2011
415
R. Linda:
Ah, me time in Big Smoke! Yup arrived at Heathrow to the noise and clatter of overhead announcements, people scurrying off for flights, children screaming, and the usual hustle and bustle of airport life. The first thing I did was get me a taxi to get the hell out of there.
My main problem was I had an interview scheduled, that had I arrived in London when I was supposed to, instead of being "detained" over a mysterious non-entity slashing away at me hangnail in an airport men's room, well I would have had plenty of time to prepare for it. As it was, I was going to be late.
I told this to the taxi driver, who then proceeded to speed up to well over 100 mph through heavy traffic (but moving, at least we were). He was doing so well that he missed the exit! So we roared down to the next one, got off, crossed the road and roared back. It was the first time in me life the power of speech left me completely. I sat hunkered down in the back well of that taxi, holding on to the sides for dear life. I kept thinking, this can't be happening, but it was!
Somehow, we made it to Queens Park in one piece. I had me luggage and I didn't know what I was going to do with it, and I certainly wasn't going to have the driver wait. So he unloaded it in front of the office building where I had the meeting. I haggled with him and paid him extra to help me lug it into the vestibule, where a perplexed young woman behind the desk informed me I was not at a hotel. Then she glanced at me heavily bandaged digit and said hospital either. YOU THINK? Oi. I paid the driver, and he left. I explained my problem to the girl, both of them, luggage and finger. Once she understood, she was very willing to help me drag the luggage behind the desk, and then she got on the phone and informed me interview I had arrived. Oh, had I.
"Would you happen to have a sticking plaster?" I asked.
She shook her head, sorry. Sigh.
My interview went off well, except for the entire time, my interview couldn't take his eyes off my finger, and I didn't bother to explain; it would be too painful, and by that time, I did not care what he thought, and that was quite something considering the state I was in. I hadn't even got to me hotel and there I was with that damned finger looking like a complete idiot. But I had little choice. To un-bandage it would probably have it bleed, and I wasn't in the mood for more blood.
I was feeling quite wiped out I was. When the interview was over I went to the desk and asked the same girl to call me a taxi. I then dragged the luggage back out the door to wait. I sat on the large suitcase and contemplated cutting off the finger, but that would mean even more blood and a bigger bandage, so I let the idea go. Finally, the taxi pulled up, we got the luggage in, me in the back, and set off for down the corner. Yup, I didn't look at the address. No, I had a taxi ride that took me 200 yards to the hotel. When he pulled up in front of it, I thought he was having a joke with me. But no, it was the hotel. I was so embarrassed.
Once registered and in me room, I called down to ask if anyone had a first aid kit. No, but there was a chemist just up the street. Great. Later, I'd go there; right, all I wanted to do was sleep and forget. And I did. By the time I woke up, it was well after noon. I rushed to the chemist before they closed, got what I needed, and returned to re-bandaged the finger. Feeling fully awake, I downed the cuppa I had made while I performed the finger bandaging and went out. I walked around for a very long time and ended up in Kilburn.
By this time, I was worn out, and I was thinking to go sit in a public garden and then find a place for dinner would be in order. But I didn't see any public garden. How had I missed Queen's Gardens? There was a very nice vagrant who walked up to me with a beat-up bicycle to beg a few quid, who told me I could use his garden if I liked after I asked where the nearest one was. I was startled he had no money, but he would have me believe he had a garden. I bit.
"Is it far?" I asked him.
"Uh, no, no, it is across the way there, ya see?" He pointed across the street and I was not seeing it. "'Ere, come on now, I'll take ya cross ta it."
I thought I would be robbed, but he was a grizzled old hard guy, and I knew I could easily outmatch him, so I crossed the road and found meself standing in front of Old Paddington Cemetery.
With a grand gesture, the old man exclaimed, "Here she is! Never anyone to chatter yer ear off; the bird life is amazin' an' best of all, it's quiet."
"I'll bet it is," I said, looking inside.
He moved nearer to me and whispered like it was a big secret, "Who needs Hyde Park when ya got this 'ere," and again, a grand gesture, "This place be a hidden gem of solitude, a sanctuary of quiet-a-tude, and food for the eye, green and stone as far as ya can see. Simply thousands of dead people and not one will disturb ya," he chuckled, "You go right on in, sit yersel down on one of em' stones and enjoy the peace and tranquillity. Just make sure yer out of there by 8, or you'll be locked in fer the night." He smiled, patting me on the shoulder, and moved off.
OK.
This was not my idea of a garden, a park, a place to relax. NO, IT WAS NOT!
I found I had shuffled a few steps inside the gate and then a few more. I was knackered, so I did walk in a short distance to sit on a tomb. I didn't want to be seen from the street, so I went behind some trees. I found one large flat stone and sat on the edge of it watching a squirrel scamper along and up a nearby tree to chatter at me invading of his premises. So much for 'quiet-a-tude'. Once feeling more energised, which wasn't hard to feel because as the long shadows started to crawl over the tombstones, it was getting distinctly creepy, I got up and got the hell out of there by stepping lively.
I ended up at a McDonald's, getting take-out for dinner and heading back to the small hotel. I wasn't in the mood for clattering restaurants low volume noise; no, I wanted to get back, flick on the telly and munch on me burger and fries. I picked up on a Thames programme halfway through. It was some detective thing that, when it got to the end, just ended. Famous British endings are simply the programme ends. Yup, nothing is resolved; you have no clue what the outcome was, it just ends. That throws me into a hissy it does. I have got too spoiled with American telly that resolves everything, but here, no, no, you can imagine an ending of your own! I was too brain-tired to do that, so I was having a small fit all by meself. Now that I think back on it, I be so glad I wasn't in a public place, they would have arrested me for boisterous riot. Oi!
The next day, sufficiently calmed down, the finger looking more presentable with a single sticking plaster, I caught a taxi that took me at a sedate speed back to Heathrow. There, I checked in while experiencing deja-vue. I did all the necessary steps to board a plane and was never so happy to be in the air as I was leaving London. I was thinking of Wolfie and how much he hates airports. He flies a lot and often will travel to three or more airports in one day to get to where he's going. I couldn't do it. Airports are bad enough, then you have hotels. If you don't travel often (which I don't), you never know exactly what you're getting. I looked online at the hotel room I was supposed to have in London. Well, the hotel room I got wasn't the one they advertised. No, my room was small, with a bath in the room and open to the room, no air conditioning, no shower down the hall, and no room service. I got up to get a glass of water during the night (I was so parched from the heat of the room), and I hit me head against the sink which was no less than a foot from me bed. So nix that, too; travel sucks!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Ah, me time in Big Smoke! Yup arrived at Heathrow to the noise and clatter of overhead announcements, people scurrying off for flights, children screaming, and the usual hustle and bustle of airport life. The first thing I did was get me a taxi to get the hell out of there.
My main problem was I had an interview scheduled, that had I arrived in London when I was supposed to, instead of being "detained" over a mysterious non-entity slashing away at me hangnail in an airport men's room, well I would have had plenty of time to prepare for it. As it was, I was going to be late.
I told this to the taxi driver, who then proceeded to speed up to well over 100 mph through heavy traffic (but moving, at least we were). He was doing so well that he missed the exit! So we roared down to the next one, got off, crossed the road and roared back. It was the first time in me life the power of speech left me completely. I sat hunkered down in the back well of that taxi, holding on to the sides for dear life. I kept thinking, this can't be happening, but it was!
Somehow, we made it to Queens Park in one piece. I had me luggage and I didn't know what I was going to do with it, and I certainly wasn't going to have the driver wait. So he unloaded it in front of the office building where I had the meeting. I haggled with him and paid him extra to help me lug it into the vestibule, where a perplexed young woman behind the desk informed me I was not at a hotel. Then she glanced at me heavily bandaged digit and said hospital either. YOU THINK? Oi. I paid the driver, and he left. I explained my problem to the girl, both of them, luggage and finger. Once she understood, she was very willing to help me drag the luggage behind the desk, and then she got on the phone and informed me interview I had arrived. Oh, had I.
"Would you happen to have a sticking plaster?" I asked.
She shook her head, sorry. Sigh.
My interview went off well, except for the entire time, my interview couldn't take his eyes off my finger, and I didn't bother to explain; it would be too painful, and by that time, I did not care what he thought, and that was quite something considering the state I was in. I hadn't even got to me hotel and there I was with that damned finger looking like a complete idiot. But I had little choice. To un-bandage it would probably have it bleed, and I wasn't in the mood for more blood.
I was feeling quite wiped out I was. When the interview was over I went to the desk and asked the same girl to call me a taxi. I then dragged the luggage back out the door to wait. I sat on the large suitcase and contemplated cutting off the finger, but that would mean even more blood and a bigger bandage, so I let the idea go. Finally, the taxi pulled up, we got the luggage in, me in the back, and set off for down the corner. Yup, I didn't look at the address. No, I had a taxi ride that took me 200 yards to the hotel. When he pulled up in front of it, I thought he was having a joke with me. But no, it was the hotel. I was so embarrassed.
Once registered and in me room, I called down to ask if anyone had a first aid kit. No, but there was a chemist just up the street. Great. Later, I'd go there; right, all I wanted to do was sleep and forget. And I did. By the time I woke up, it was well after noon. I rushed to the chemist before they closed, got what I needed, and returned to re-bandaged the finger. Feeling fully awake, I downed the cuppa I had made while I performed the finger bandaging and went out. I walked around for a very long time and ended up in Kilburn.
By this time, I was worn out, and I was thinking to go sit in a public garden and then find a place for dinner would be in order. But I didn't see any public garden. How had I missed Queen's Gardens? There was a very nice vagrant who walked up to me with a beat-up bicycle to beg a few quid, who told me I could use his garden if I liked after I asked where the nearest one was. I was startled he had no money, but he would have me believe he had a garden. I bit.
"Is it far?" I asked him.
"Uh, no, no, it is across the way there, ya see?" He pointed across the street and I was not seeing it. "'Ere, come on now, I'll take ya cross ta it."
I thought I would be robbed, but he was a grizzled old hard guy, and I knew I could easily outmatch him, so I crossed the road and found meself standing in front of Old Paddington Cemetery.
With a grand gesture, the old man exclaimed, "Here she is! Never anyone to chatter yer ear off; the bird life is amazin' an' best of all, it's quiet."
"I'll bet it is," I said, looking inside.
He moved nearer to me and whispered like it was a big secret, "Who needs Hyde Park when ya got this 'ere," and again, a grand gesture, "This place be a hidden gem of solitude, a sanctuary of quiet-a-tude, and food for the eye, green and stone as far as ya can see. Simply thousands of dead people and not one will disturb ya," he chuckled, "You go right on in, sit yersel down on one of em' stones and enjoy the peace and tranquillity. Just make sure yer out of there by 8, or you'll be locked in fer the night." He smiled, patting me on the shoulder, and moved off.
OK.
This was not my idea of a garden, a park, a place to relax. NO, IT WAS NOT!
I found I had shuffled a few steps inside the gate and then a few more. I was knackered, so I did walk in a short distance to sit on a tomb. I didn't want to be seen from the street, so I went behind some trees. I found one large flat stone and sat on the edge of it watching a squirrel scamper along and up a nearby tree to chatter at me invading of his premises. So much for 'quiet-a-tude'. Once feeling more energised, which wasn't hard to feel because as the long shadows started to crawl over the tombstones, it was getting distinctly creepy, I got up and got the hell out of there by stepping lively.
I ended up at a McDonald's, getting take-out for dinner and heading back to the small hotel. I wasn't in the mood for clattering restaurants low volume noise; no, I wanted to get back, flick on the telly and munch on me burger and fries. I picked up on a Thames programme halfway through. It was some detective thing that, when it got to the end, just ended. Famous British endings are simply the programme ends. Yup, nothing is resolved; you have no clue what the outcome was, it just ends. That throws me into a hissy it does. I have got too spoiled with American telly that resolves everything, but here, no, no, you can imagine an ending of your own! I was too brain-tired to do that, so I was having a small fit all by meself. Now that I think back on it, I be so glad I wasn't in a public place, they would have arrested me for boisterous riot. Oi!
The next day, sufficiently calmed down, the finger looking more presentable with a single sticking plaster, I caught a taxi that took me at a sedate speed back to Heathrow. There, I checked in while experiencing deja-vue. I did all the necessary steps to board a plane and was never so happy to be in the air as I was leaving London. I was thinking of Wolfie and how much he hates airports. He flies a lot and often will travel to three or more airports in one day to get to where he's going. I couldn't do it. Airports are bad enough, then you have hotels. If you don't travel often (which I don't), you never know exactly what you're getting. I looked online at the hotel room I was supposed to have in London. Well, the hotel room I got wasn't the one they advertised. No, my room was small, with a bath in the room and open to the room, no air conditioning, no shower down the hall, and no room service. I got up to get a glass of water during the night (I was so parched from the heat of the room), and I hit me head against the sink which was no less than a foot from me bed. So nix that, too; travel sucks!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
