I am on assignment in London, which is not something I thought I'd be writing today. If I had, I would have fetched my Oyster card from the Historical House, not just my tweed suit. By Friday morning I knew there was a good chance I'd be sent to Liverpool to cover the Alfie Evans protests. On Saturday morning my editor and I were in agreement that I'd go to London next.
Naturally nobody I know in London has any space to keep me in, so I booked the cheapest room I could in Kensington. Kensington still carries the cache (in my mind, at least) of being safe, and my hotel is only a 30 minute walk away from the Brompton Oratory.
Strangely, it is sunny out. Although I am in a tiny semi-underground room, I have a gauze-curtained window and the sun is shining through it. Soon I will stop this blogging nonsense and go to church via Hyde Park.
It was sunny when I arrived in London yesterday evening, too. I was surprised at how light it was, and had a confused idea it was because London is so much further south than Edinburgh. Actually it's because at that hour I am usually in another small room writing up dark news. But all the same, I felt exultant and happy and remembered a line of poetry my mother used to declaim, "Oh to be in England, now that April's here."
A one-way underground ticket from Euston railway station was an eye-watering £4.90.
I found my hotel and after a struggle got online and then got the receptionist to call Ognisko and make a reservation for one. This saved me the embarrassment of being rejected, should the popular Polish restaurant feel disgruntled about single diners. However, Ognisko said I could come at 8:30 PM, which was fine by me, as it gave me time to call my husband, have a shower and walk to Exhibition Road.
Thank heavens for the shower, for I was exhausted. And thank goodness for Ognisko, as I hadn't eaten since 9AM. I spent most of Saturday taking cabs across Liverpool, rushing hither and thither and talking to Scousers about Alfie Evans. The cab drivers of Liverpool seem unanimous in their support for Alfie's parents and their disdain for Alder Hey Children's Hospital. Two cabbies told me they were sure Alder Hey doesn't want Alfie to go to "that Italian hospital" for fear the Italian doctors will find some hideous mistake Alder Hey made in Alfie's treatment. The cabbie who took me to my 3:50 PM train had been at the spontaneous 1000-person strong rally on Thursday night.
Showered and in my nice blue wool dress, I walked to Ognisko and had a splendid dinner: trzaski (deep fried pork crackling) with pear and horseradish sauce, barszcz with a tiny croquette of pate, smoked salmon blinis, and a shot of the house's pear vodka. I had never eaten in Ognisko alone, but I've been there with Benedict Ambrose and with Polish Pretend Son, so the elegant dining room was full of deeply amusing memories.
As I munched I reflected that if I were to die at a restaurant, as trad heroes sometimes do, I should like it to be at Ognisko, although not until I had eaten the trzaski. The barszcz, by the way, tasted as though it had been stewed from the bones of the oxen of Mt Olympus, or so I wrote to PPS afterwards. Quite a heady soup for a lady used to the vegetarian Christmas Eve version.
Then I walked back to my hotel to assure my Edinburgh-loving, London-hating husband over Skype that I had not been killed. Cromwell Road has unintentionally funny real estate ads for Saudis, featuring Dad-Mom-Child photos of Saudis in full Saudi dress sitting in a field with an English palace in the background. I passed a live Arab Dad-Mom-Child family on the street, the Mom all in black with a face veil. There were also other young Arab men on the street, but also a dozen other people from all over the world, it seemed, usually carrying shopping bags and looking heartbreakingly tired.
Earls Court Road teemed with Poles. I passed an incensed Polish woman just as she yelled "----JUZ alkohole!" at her man, and a couple of young Polish men conversing in very drunken Polish. This morning the neighbourhood seemed less Polish. Soon after the fire alarm went off in my hotel, I sauntered off in the direction of "Paul", a French (or "French") boulangerie and cafe, having spotted it last night. (When you're as addicted to coffee as I am, you look out for these things in advance.)
Paul has a very large variety of croissants, doughnuts, breads and colourful little cakes shining like jewels behind high plastic windows. The counter is staffed by pretty women from various places in Europe and (indirectly, I am guessing) China, and the espresso is very good. The large "Americano" was less good, but that serves me right for being greedy.
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