War stories from a weary traveller

Well, back yesterday from our trip to England. I almost kissed the ground when we arrived. There is no place like Canada. When we flew in and I saw that beloved snow-covered tarmack, delicious relief swept me. Waiting in line for Customs, I overheard a young woman on her phone complaining to her mother......."Oh mummy, I hate it here. Why did we come here!? When I saw the snow I almost cried. I just wish I could turn around and go back!" Hey, do it. Wherever you came from, get the h-ll back there! But there are many stories to tell...........here goes..........

In case you're robbed............

..........all women of my age have to clean the house before they leave for vacation. So, there I was the morning of our trip, cleaning and vaccuming. My mother, coaching from the grave, made sure every toilet and every corner was spic and span. Presumably the respectable woman's hearth must be presentable to both thief and policeman. (By the way, she also insisted that anyone whose laundry was her responsibility wear proper, mended underwear in case one of us were in an accident and the doctors thought I had an unfit mother who let me wear ripped underpants. A secret slob I was not permitted to be.) Truth be told, I was looking ahead to our return. Dragging in from a long flight to a messy house I could not face. So condo shining, off we went and eventually arrived at Heathrow. After an 80 L taxi ride from the airport -- remember the pound is at $1.60 cdn, so you do the math -- we made it to our destination. Our lodgings were in Bloomsbury, a private club for alumni of London House, where B did his graduate work 50 years ago. We headed off to old haunts we had frequented in previous trips; they had not changed at all. And the English still drink. A lot.

Sitting in the local, I could not stop eavsdropping on four elderly gents beside us. All completely weird, but so British. They ordered things like "fish, chips and mushy peas", pronounced "moushy"...and sausage and chips...and a sausage and mash sandwich. For dessert the menu featured, "sticky toffee pudding with cream"........."treacle tart and chantilly cream, with a hint of scotch whisky" and best of all........."spotted dick dessert". I didn't dare ask what that was! All four patrons featured various pronounced facial ticks and bodily quirks, with one of them bordering on tourette's I swear. He blinked and squinted and ahem-ed and aha-ed, as he talked about Papua New Guinea, Tunisia, Edward VIIth, Mrs. Simpson -- "he was besotted with that one" -- and various other world issues. Not a word of gossip or sports did they utter. Just intelligent, facinating banter. It was a far and welcome cry from the lugs and louts found in the average Canadian sports bar.

But London is London no longer. It is a vast, crowded, rushing, rude torrent of all races, creeds and nationalities. Courtesy has flown out the window and security fears have given rise to blocked roads, one-ways, construction, screaming sirens and narry a garbage can in sight -- or should I say rubbish bin. Now there are men pushing carts and you have to chase them to throw anything out. The English have high-tailed it to the country, where we spent a lovely day visiting B's mother on her 92nd birthday. More about her in a subsequent blog. But to give you a hint, one of the first things she said to me was, "Dahling, what do you weigh?" "I don't know in stones," I replied, grateful I couldn't do the math! She dropped it. '

More on shopping later too. Another hint: we went to Liberty's where 2,300-L evening bags were the norm. I kid you not!!!! I drooled over Jimmy Choo's, but didn't fall prey to any.

More on dining later. Look forward to an account of our dinners at the Savoy, the Dorchester and the Ritz. Later.