Monday, July 24, 2006
Mind the Gap
Monday, July 10
Destination: Denver Airport, where a British Airways jet is waiting to whisk me off to the land of Jaffas, gin tonics, and curry take-out. Later, Colorado.
Tuesday, July 11
I arrive at Biped's office around 3.30-ish and amuse her with my newly-procured Oyster card. Shiny.
She leads me on a two-hour tramp over the beautiful greenspace of Hampstead Heath, at the end of which I am rewarded with ice cream. Such hardship.
She even takes me to her super-secret-Sunday-morning-hideout, an enticing terrace cafe alongside a manor house-turned-museum, perched atop a rise overlooking the Heath. Biped seems immensely pleased that I've made it thus far without collapsing. I don't tell her that being back at sea level makes me feel 10 years younger. Yay for oxygen.
Dinner at a curry joint. They bring a plate of orange slices and what looks like seed and spice garni. Biped says it tastes like potpourri. That's how I like to finish up a meal.
Wednesday, July 12
Decide to be a lazy slob and visit Highgate Cemetery, which is barely a mile up the road from Biped's. Once a posh Victorian resting place for the well-heeled, the cemetery is now a lush overgrown jungle of ivy and brambles.
They charge me 2 pounds entrance fee for "maintenance and upkeep". So glad they're putting it to good use.
A dog pops out of the undergrowth. A very red dog. With a rather long body and big bushy tail. Thankfully, no Tories on horseback to be seen.
Highgate has a reasonable number of luminaries reposing here. Most people come to see the father of the Manifesto, but I primarily wanted to pay homage to one of my favorite writers.
It's a good place for a shady wander. Sometimes a name, or a stone, catches my eye, like this one: Caleb Pink. Really.
I wander back over the Heath on the way home. I could live in Hampstead with a park like this at my garden gate.
Along the way I watch a couple practicing Tai Chi under a huge English oak.
Thursday, July 13
Skipping right over Thursday (I guess everyone knows by now what I was doing...).
Friday, July 14
Biped and I seem to also share the architectural fantasy gene (which the Human Genome Project has yet to identify). We discuss knocking out her walls and glassing over her terrace.
Indy takes a half day and drives up to London. We spend the afternoon having a coffee on Biped's terrace and then drinks on the pub's terrace. It was a really pleasant, relaxing day, which is sometimes far nicer than running about doing the frantic tourist thing like a headless chicken.
I was bummed that we missed seeing Hampton Court, but I threaten Biped with a second visit and she surprisingly doesn't make noises about moving to Burma. Which I might have done had some strange foreign Hobbling come chuck in my toilet for a day.
Ain't Biped the Best?
And thus ends Hobbling No. 5's stay at Chez Biped, a.k.a. Florence Nightengale, whom I shall evermore fondly associate with flat coke and potpourri. (Num!)
Destination: Denver Airport, where a British Airways jet is waiting to whisk me off to the land of Jaffas, gin tonics, and curry take-out. Later, Colorado.
Tuesday, July 11
I arrive at Biped's office around 3.30-ish and amuse her with my newly-procured Oyster card. Shiny.
She leads me on a two-hour tramp over the beautiful greenspace of Hampstead Heath, at the end of which I am rewarded with ice cream. Such hardship.
She even takes me to her super-secret-Sunday-morning-hideout, an enticing terrace cafe alongside a manor house-turned-museum, perched atop a rise overlooking the Heath. Biped seems immensely pleased that I've made it thus far without collapsing. I don't tell her that being back at sea level makes me feel 10 years younger. Yay for oxygen.
Dinner at a curry joint. They bring a plate of orange slices and what looks like seed and spice garni. Biped says it tastes like potpourri. That's how I like to finish up a meal.
Wednesday, July 12
Decide to be a lazy slob and visit Highgate Cemetery, which is barely a mile up the road from Biped's. Once a posh Victorian resting place for the well-heeled, the cemetery is now a lush overgrown jungle of ivy and brambles.
They charge me 2 pounds entrance fee for "maintenance and upkeep". So glad they're putting it to good use.
A dog pops out of the undergrowth. A very red dog. With a rather long body and big bushy tail. Thankfully, no Tories on horseback to be seen.
Highgate has a reasonable number of luminaries reposing here. Most people come to see the father of the Manifesto, but I primarily wanted to pay homage to one of my favorite writers.
It's a good place for a shady wander. Sometimes a name, or a stone, catches my eye, like this one: Caleb Pink. Really.
I wander back over the Heath on the way home. I could live in Hampstead with a park like this at my garden gate.
Along the way I watch a couple practicing Tai Chi under a huge English oak.
Thursday, July 13
Skipping right over Thursday (I guess everyone knows by now what I was doing...).
Friday, July 14
Biped and I seem to also share the architectural fantasy gene (which the Human Genome Project has yet to identify). We discuss knocking out her walls and glassing over her terrace.
Indy takes a half day and drives up to London. We spend the afternoon having a coffee on Biped's terrace and then drinks on the pub's terrace. It was a really pleasant, relaxing day, which is sometimes far nicer than running about doing the frantic tourist thing like a headless chicken.
I was bummed that we missed seeing Hampton Court, but I threaten Biped with a second visit and she surprisingly doesn't make noises about moving to Burma. Which I might have done had some strange foreign Hobbling come chuck in my toilet for a day.
Ain't Biped the Best?
And thus ends Hobbling No. 5's stay at Chez Biped, a.k.a. Florence Nightengale, whom I shall evermore fondly associate with flat coke and potpourri. (Num!)
9 Comments:
Rian is so Terribly Jealous.
I may be weeping.
Ah, red walls. Mmm, how wonderful they are.
Indy, you look Italian. No idea why. Maybe the beard.
And the park! Did she show you the mystical tree that leads to the underworld?
*hands hanky to Rian* I told you you should come with.
And of course, I had to get Red Walls for our Scribe.
But, no mystical tree. *pouts* Nor was there a wardrobe leading to Lamp Post.
Ah! Lovely! wonderful! I must go see Biped too.... adn to think I planned to go to England this summer.... *sob*
More?
Uh-oh. What have I started? Run, Biped, run! Hide!
Don't worry. There are more pictures. Oodles and oodles. And oodles.
But no poodles.
Any noodles?
Biped be indeed the Best.
But shame on her for not making you climb inside a tree. That is so the best bit of Hampstead Heath.
Great photos, Dana, even if you did catch me without the hat...
poodles
It was a bloody fox!
Indy, you look Italian
*laughs* I hope Blue doesn't read that, as I'll never hear the end of it!
If any visiting Hobblings would like to sample different bathrooms and buckets to throw up in, I can arrange a selection of zummerzet ones.
The jury is still out on whether biped is poisoning hobblings to get her mitts on shiny new toys.
When is Narr coming to Australia? I'm sure I can find a pretty park or two for you to wander around in. *lures*
Sounds like a wondrous trip. Hospitable Hobblings are noble creatures.
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