Oranges and Lemons

In a moment of sheer serendipity, I was outside St. Clement Danes, City of London at 6 PM. The famous church rang the hour and then burst into a chorus of "Orange and Lemons". Could there be any child brought up on "Mother Goose's Nursery Rhymes" who could fail to be moved by that?

That's the thing about London, "centre of Empire" as I muttered aloud while waiting to cross to Westminster Tube Station. The woman beside me might have thought I was a bit crazy.  Not crazy--but tired. In another serendipitous moment, I found myself at Westminster Abbey in time for the Evening Service. Having been at Mass at the Brompton Oratory already, I took a programme and went in. My family has a devotion to Saint Edward the Confessor, and Saint Edward is, of course, buried in the Abbey. He decreed that it be built, too.

I went to "High Mass" at Brompton Oratory, which is at 11:00, according to the Novus Ordo, but in Latin. Splendid choir. The homily preached against the media, especially "the Catholic media", and gave "the blogs" a good drubbing. We are not to trust in the media but in the Gospel, which we should read instead. Something along those lines. All very sad for your humble correspondent, who was having a hard enough time praying instead of worrying about whether or not her computer was being stolen at that very moment by Kensington hotel thieves.

After Mass I saw absolutely no-one I knew other than the famous Andrew Cusack, who wanted to know the Edinburgh gossip and was delighted to hear that his favourite Edinburgh priest had not changed. The homily was very down on fake news, so I won't use scare quotes for Cusack, but I said something like "Father [redacted] is exactly the same" and Cusack said that this was the best possible news. That was literally the first piece of gossip that came to mind, in part because people who love Edinburgh are always happy to hear that it is just as they left it.

We walked along Cromwell Road a ways, and then Cusack disappeared, probably to some amazing luncheon party whose photographs will end up in Hello or, if not that, the champagne-fuelled launch of some exciting book about gentlemen's hats or shoes or jackets or some such.

I, being a "poor b... reporter" (as Salcombe Hardy in the Lord Peter Wimsey stories would say), bought a "meal deal" from Marks & Spenser, sent a few messages, and went to Ealing to take sad photographs.  Then I went back to the Brompton Oratory to buy a copy of the Catholic Herald, which I adore now that it is the Catholic Spectator.  Then, because it was nearby and has loos, I went to Harrods for the first time in my adult life and had quite a shock.

Not to put a fine point on it, Harrods is not very British. Harrods is the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in department store form. I went in thinking of Paddington Bear and found myself plunged into the playground of billionaires. No wonder the Saudis live in South Kensington.

There is--get this--there is literally a Hall of Perfumes in Harrods and when you walk in, you are almost overcome either with the combined scent of all the expensive perfumes of the world or one special scent Harrods spritzes into the air from hidden vents.  Meanwhile, in the ladies' loo on the first floor--the floor dedicated to women's clothing and I barely dared to look--one can douse herself as liberally with Coco Chanel or a number of other scents as she ought to use soap. The bottles are just sitting there above the sinks.

Having decided that this excess was actually pagan and part of the worship of Mammon or Baal or goodness knows whom, I did not dose myself in perfume but headed for the exit to Brompton Road as soon as I could. I swiftly marched away from wicked Harrods in my rain boots without a rest until I was safely in Exhibition Road. I then spent £6 on a double macchiato and a pain-au-chocolat.

After this restorative refreshment, I went to the Courts of Justice and took their photograph. Then it was 6 PM and the serendipitous moment happened in from of St. Clement's. I had a look at the Thames, which was grey and populated with tour boats, and then I went to Westminster. Poor Big Ben is still covered with scaffolding and his hands are missing.

The theme of the sermon during the Westminster Abbey Evening Service was "identity through stories." And you'll never believe it but there were special prayers for the media and subtle hints about our "fake news", as if we were all engaged in writing the "Hilary Clinton Space Alien Sex Shocker" stories that apparently so influenced the U.S. presidential election.

Now I am back in my slightly-smelling-of-drains hotel room, and I am pretty tired. I have also forgotten to have any dinner, woe is me, poor b... reporter.