Witch in London

Leaving the Stopfordian drizzle behind for some London sunshine was actually quite nice. It helps having dry weather for when one wants to sit on park benches to munch on packed lunch. It also helps greatly if the park has benches. Green Park, please note, I want more benches. I found one eventually, with a view of the Queen’s home in the distance. The scrunchy leaves for the day were Lyme. I think. Until recently I’d have called them Maple, but I believe there may be a difference in continent. Or language. Whatever they are, they are Lönn in the language I’m best with when it comes to nature.

The interview, which was with Malorie Blackman (slight hint yesterday), went very well. Malorie had no idea who to look for, so willingly let herself be hijacked by the witch. The ever efficient Nina at Random had decreed we should meet at the fifth floor café of the large bookshop in Piccadilly. The building is very lovely, and I’ll have to return to stare at the architecture a bit more one day. However, I do feel the children’s books department is nowhere near big enough for a shop that size. Can recommend the Chai Latte, particularly if you don’t have to pay for it. Thanks, Malorie.

Once in the neighbourhood I decided to revisit Albemarle Street, where I used to go regularly in my younger days. This time I actually walked past Brown’s Hotel and carried on to the Royal Institution. I guessed the large building at the end of Albemarle Street had to be it, until remnants of my common sense kicked in and told me that as I have a painting on the wall at home of that very building, of course it was the right place. One day I must bring my young Faraday descendants there to check out Great-great-great-great-great Uncle’s old haunts.

The witch dragged her aching legs all the way to the South Bank, stopping to admire the late afternoon light over Westminster from Waterloo Bridge. I like the concrete ghetto around the National Theatre. The NT itself is a good place to hang out and pass the time. It seems to act as a meeting place, but mainly for the elderly, I’d say. Perhaps it’s the same people who used to come when they were young and the NT was new. Tea and cake from the little Espresso bar in the corner while I waited for the platform (you are meant to click on this, you know) reading by Bill Paterson in the Cottesloe. Hearing Bill was originally intended as a way of staying warm and sitting down, while waiting for train home, but it was a fantastic event, and one I’m glad I decided to go to. There’s something about a Glasgow accent…