Another early morning.
I decided to make my way to Picadilly (I don't know why but this name makes me laugh, but it does) via Buckingham Palace. No I didn't see the Queen, and in the nine years I have been in London on and off, I have never seen any members of the Royal Family. Actually that is not true, I have seen Princess Michael of Kent but she scores below par on my star/royal spotting list and so, I am still on the look out for Prince Charles or Prince William or Prince Harry - even the Duchess of Cornwell. It is very unlikely that a Queen 'spotting' will eventuate. If royal rumour is to be believed the Queen is driven, incognito, in a black cab around London unless an official occasion warrants the full pomp and circumstance - imagine how many cab windows I have peered in! Sorry to deviate but London would not be London without a little mention of the Royals - they make this town tick and they are without doubt the number one reason why tourists flock to London at all months of the year, in all temperatures and line up against Buckingham Palace for a little bit of pageantry.
It was just as you imagine - a brass band pumping out, 'Land of Hope and Glory', policeman on horseback and loads of people clicking off shots and filming videos. The crowds were gathered thick against the gates to the palace, so I enjoyed the band, had a little hum along and continued my walk up the Mall. Just to clarify, 'mall' is pronounced 'mal' not 'mawl' as I have only recently learnt.
Another little deviation about pronunciation. So many words are not as they seem in the UK, for example Beauchamp Place is pronounced 'beech'm' and so on. There are phonetic differences with most place names that end in ham, ton, by and ford. Imagine the colour of my cheeks when I finally understood that to sound out every vowel and consonant was not the thing, but rather to swallow my words and gobble the syllables was far more proper. English is not always English, even the King's English...
Moving up the Mall I caught a glimpse of Big Ben through St James's park. More deviation.... It has taken me years to understand that the parks are the Brit's equivalent of the beaches. If the sun makes an appearance (not that often remember) the park becomes the beach. Clothes are abandoned and trunks and bathers (not swimmers or costumes) are worn in the hope of catching a few rays. The mere hint of sunshine and deck chairs are placed on the perfectly manicured lawns, ready for those who want to worship the sun.
I crossed the Mall and walked up towards St James's. Many streets in London are called only by name, for example St James's is a street, Piccadilly is a street and Knightsbridge is a street, but they are also districts and tube stations -so a very confusing trap for any new kid on the block. Be careful when someone says, meet you in St James's - it could well be one of a number of places.
St James's, in the heart of Piccadilly, is the street where gentleman clubs prevail.
Brooks's (above), one of the exclusive male only clubs, along with Boodle's and White's across the street, was founded in 1764. Excuse me as I deviate once more with a little trivia - Brooks's is where the sandwhich was invented. John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwhich, was enjoying a long run of gambling when his hunger got the better of him. He asked for something that could be eaten in one hand so that his card play would not be disturbed - beef between two slices of toast was the answer.
Further up the street I turned right into Jermyn Street and did manage a little celeb spotting - that is if Graydon Carter, editor in chief of Vanity Fair magazine counts. He is a distinctive looking man with his glamorous grey locks, so not hard to notice.
If St James's (street) is the home of male bonding then Jermyn Street is all about male shopping. I know there is nothing of great interest for us girlies but I love this quaint little road devoted to the primping of men. With all the retail therapy we women can indulge in, it doesn't seem too much that our men have one little street proffering ties, socks, shavers and hankies.
If you are not eating at the club it is always a pleasure to pop into Wiltons restaurant for a little light luncheon - smoked salmon or lemon dover sole would be the traditional fare. Yes, women are allowed in.
Time to stop thinking about the boys and have a look at Fortnum and Masons. The quintessential English experience. Today I can only show you the restaurant windows as I promised myself no Christmas talk or Christmas snaps before December - and there could be much Christmas talk and millions of Christmas snaps at Fortnum and Masons.
Fortnums has been recently refurbished and it is very beautiful - a must on any visit to London. I did give in and go in. I could not resist, and I did get very excited about Christmas but that will have to wait .....With my willpower at it's strongest I left reluctantly and walked to Hatchards bookshop, another equally sedate British institution.
I think this book shop is my most favourite and that is saying something for a Francophile like me. At Hatchards it is the old worldliness that seduces; the sweeping spiral staircase that transports you from one floor to another, the stacked and signed copies, the clipped accents of the assistants and the smell, I adore the smell of books on mass.
Across the road I was tempted to visit the Royal Academy and see the Byzantium exhibition but when this cab came my way, I thought better of it - I jumped in and went to meet my gorgeous daughter for lunch instead.
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