Saturday 17th July 2021

Several months ago, the blog I follow, A word in Your Ear/A Word in Your Attic, announced they were doing a live show. Socially distanced in an an outdor theatre in London.

Back in the early spring it sounded a fine thing to sign up for, the pandemic would be mostly over and all would be fine and dandy.

Only, it isn't, clearly. Over 50,000 daily new infections (that we know of) and Johnson about to commit the biggest, or latest, gamble with the unlocking of society on Monday. Suddenly, sitting on a crowded train for an hour or two didn't sound so clever after all.

And then there was the gout.

There is no doubt that I could not have gone to London on Friday, so I would make the decision on Saturday morning.

In the event, though it still hurt some, I knew with shoes on it would be better. And if it got too painful there would always be taxis to hire.

I hoped.

So, the day was on.

I went to plan our journey up, only to find all high speed trains were being used for people going to The Open in Sandwich, only. And those that did run would not stop at Martin Mill. So, the alternative was to catch a "classic" service, and go up that way, and for some reason trains were being diverted from Charing Cross to Victoria, which looked to be in easy walking distance of Holland Park where the show was to be.

We got up and had coffee and fruit, packed lots of drinks and a camera, and were ready to leave at eight. Down the hill to the station, finding that the country-bound platform with more waiting passengers than I have seen here, all going to Sandwich for the Open.

When our train pulled in a few minutes later, there was just one other passenger in the carriage. And as it trundled towards London it did beging to fill, but even after Tonbridge and Sevenoaks there was still spaces. On a Saturday. At the start of school holidays!

I stared out of the window as the Kent countryside rolled by, it is one of the pleasures in life to see fields of wheat, hedges, forests and picturesque villages slide by, all demanding to be visited. Just wait your tun, buhs.

After leaving Sevenoaks, the train enters a long tunnels and emerges in the London suburbs. One final stop at Bromley and it was a clear run to Victoria. And even though the trip took two hours ten minutes, this would have been classed as a semi-fast service in BR days, as many stations were missed out, though where we did stop, the linger time was several minutes.

But we arrive in London, pour off the train and into the station, which had more people than I have seen in over 18 months, and yet was a quiet as what used to be a Sunday morning. We were thirsty and hungry. And we had about an hour's walk to go, so, with a check of the phone we set off down Buckingham Palace Road.

Really.

After about fifteen minutes, we came to an Italian place, Chucs, that had a table on the pavement outside. We took it and ordered orange juice, followed by a full breakfast for Jools and scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for me. With proper coffee to follow. So, as we sat we could watch the other people go about their lives, Porsches and Lamborginis rolled by, couples with children in tow, and a lady whnt into a shop opposite that you needed an appointment to be allowed inside.

How the other half lives. Or the other 1%. There is no recession here, nor will there very be.

All around are the embassies for countries from around the world, mixed in with Georgian townhouses and mews inbetween. It would be nice to live here, I thought for a moment, and I couldn't give up our place on the edge of the village, with the countryside so close. It may be genteel, but its still central London.

Beyond Chucs, Belgravia turned serious, we streets of identical Georgian houses, more mews, and flash cars parked outside. The line from one of Douglas Adams' books echoed in my head: My other car is also a Porsche.

We pressed on and came to Belgrave Square, sirrounded as it is by Embassies and Consulates, the garden in the middle is fenced off and private.

We went on and came to the edge of Hyde Park, we enter that and walk along the shaded path, but soon the temperature made us find shelter under a tree, where we lay for half an hour just to cool down.

We walked on, until we came to the main road that crosses the Park, and due to the heat and gout, we flagged a taxi down and instructed him to take us to Holland Park.

He dropped us off in Kensngton High Street, right by one of the entrances into the park. And there was a map, so where, exactly, is the theatre?

Not marked.

Bugger.

But with the internet on your phone, you're never lost. Google Maps showed it, and was just a warm five minute walk up the hill and to the left. Few were in the open sun on the grass, most under trees in deep shade.

We saw people were being let in, so we queued up and took our turn, as the theatre had a tent-like roof, so offered shade and iced drinks too, but for a kings ransom. Three quid for a can of elderberry non-alcoholic fizz, but was refreshing.

Seating was on a collection of old wooden chairs, socially dstanced, so safe. We took a pair and waited for the hour or so to pass until it was hsowtime, by which point most seats were taken.

four authors/music writers came along to regale us with tales of the rich and musically famous. Gary Crowley opened the three hour event, and Danny Baker closed it. He'd still be talking now, but drew a breath at quarter past four and David Hepworth stepped in to say they had to finsih as there was some opera on later they had to prepare for.

We left, walking down the hill back to Kensington High Street where we flagged another taxo down, this time to take us to St Pancras. As ever there are parts of London I have nver been to; we went through Notting Hill and beyond until we came to Paddington where we drove through heavy traffic along Euston Road to the station. Thirty quid, I don't think my foot would have lasted on the Tube. Saying that, it was feeling better, but my phone informed me I had done 9,700 steps.

We walked to the platofrms and got on a fast air conditioned train to take us to Ashford where we could change onto a Dover train. In the morning, Ashford to London took over 90 minutes, the high speed did it in 40, enabling us to catch a train that had left London before the show had finished!

Once in Dover, we had to get yet another taxi to take us to Martin Mill to collect the car, meaning we got home at eight, 12 hours after leaving. The feline welcoming party was there, with Scully leading the "we are hungry" chorus.

I cook two pizzas, and in 15 minutes we were drinking more squash with slices of spicy, meaty pizza.

Phew.