Published with a disclaimer: my computer is home. I am reduced to blogging on my Tablet. Always a risky business.
Flying in an hour west of London, the pilot warns, “London is grey and gloomy.” I am not surprised. At 39,000 feet, the clouds look as solid as the Arctic tundra. The only thing missing are the Huskies and a driver shouting, Mush!” With a temperature of minus 88 F, the clouds below just might be ice. I would like to take a photo of the moon just off the plane’s wing, but ice crystals on the window mar the shot.
Gone are the gold and glitter days of staying at The White House north of Great Portland Tube Station. Gone are the good postcode flats . Retirement has its drawbacks: no more travel on the company dime.
Travelling skint, I am staying at the YHA London Central Hostel south of Great Portland Station. Having experienced a good number of hostels on our El Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, I know a good hostel when I see one. I have, after all, faced bedbugs, insecticide designed to subdue bedbugs and standing, scummy water in co-ed bathrooms. YHA is most definitely a cut above: it is clean and the price is right: I would rather spend my money on concert and theatre tickets.
Betjeman sculpture at St. Pancras Station: “And in the shadowless unclouded glare deep blue above us fades to whiteness where a misty sea-line meets the wash of air.”
I love the buzz of London. The day awaits. Time is passing. I can stay on my Tablet. Or I can head down to the National Portrait Gallery. I’m on my way!
Stay inside and rust or go outside and watch the rust slough off.