Big Smoke

Yesterday's journey to town included a bone shaking journey across country along 'B' roads, though how much contact there was at any given moment in time between all four wheels and the road surface is a matter of conjecture, but something perhaps not best contemplated by someone likely to have to repeat the experience at some time in the future.

We're broke again (or still) so we won't be escaping the public transport bind for a while.

I had an anxiety attack during the week. That was another thing. A year after the last round of serious money worries we're no further forward. And I looked on the home office web site. I have two visa options but one of them, holding it would make it far easier to get a better paid job, will cost me the best part of £1,000 while the other will cost just over £300. It just isn't going to be possible to make the investment in the 'better' visa. I also need a car if I'm going to get to and fro that better job. How the fuck am I supposed to get myself out of this cesspit he dug for me?

The upside of the bus journey was that it took less time than it should have, and we were ahead of ourselves. Also the trains were running right into London rather than stopping outside and dumping us onto the underground. We had bucket loads of time to kill and he suggested popping into the Museum of London; this was fine by me as it meant we didn't actually have to talk. The museum has come on strongly since I first visited it almost 15 years ago. This time we didn't get past the pre-history gallery of case upon case of flint, old bone, pottery shards and the occasional piece of ornamentation. This is all while major work is going on to revive the lower galleries, but I was perfectly to pass half an hour there.

Then legging it across to the west to the coach station, travelling by the No.11 which used to be such a cool experience and is now in many ways just another bus journey, albeit one that takes the passenger from the heart of the city, via St Paul's (where we picked it up) down Ludgate Hill to the point where what was once the Fleet is crossed. From there on up Fleet Street and the Strand, towards Trafalgar Square then onwards to the Abbey and in to Victoria.

At some point we picked up a couple of old dears very much off their patch (Knightsbridge to go by the accent) and one was moved to remark to the other - but quite loudly enough that the entire assembled company heard her over the engine, that "London is rather full of tourists these days!" which made me and the few other people on the bus with enough English to understand smile. She and her friend tottered off somewhere down Victoria Street, still a long way from home. Perhaps they were a couple of well-heeled crusty recusants off to the Cathedral to bother God.

We were on time, the coach was late. The board said "Delayed, no information available". The information desk was equally informative. The coach turned up about forty minutes late. She looked tired. We said our farewells to the friend she'd made last year and kept in touch with. She insisted she'd had a good time but she wasn't bounding the way I'd expect. We dragged her luggage to a cheap restaurant and fed our faces, then went up to Covent Garden to spend money (but note the opening to this post). Apparently it had to be done. We bought booze, but Vic Bitter and Coopers Ale have lost their appeal. They just aren't as good as I once thought they were. But we had to buy some and some food.

So now we were dragging luggage and shopping through London's crowded streets with an exhausted child in tow. We got a little more about her week from her. The coach was late getting in because the driver took the wrong route and put them that much behind schedule. I hope the two German kids they'd had on the camp and who they dumped at Heathrow to get a plane home didn't miss their flight. Before she went away we'd talked about going to the good Indian restaurant in town for a nosh-up, but by the time we got back we were all too tired to go out again.

The cat has perked up no end with the Little One's return and the second coming of the Pink Palace.

The Palace, meanwhile, has lost some of its lustre apparently. Although she slept in it last night she came up in the morning and crawled under the covers of her 'little old bed'. We haven't had a summer and the jumpers which I never did get around to packing properly are now being worn again. The days are shortening and she'll be back to school. I have the school shoes and most of the rest of it can give us a bit more wear. Thankfully.

Next year it is spy camp we've been told, whether or not her friend from last year is going too. Here's hoping that the paternal grandmother can stump up the readies, 'cos I can't see us affording it unless one of his scratch cards turns out to be a big payer.

Next thing is to shake off yet another bug. Another novel, a bit derivative but what isn't, has started to take shape and the only way to get rid of it will be to write it down.