Dig It (title of Beatles tune)

Monday morning held the promise of participating in an activity that might not appeal to everyone. With my love of ancient history, walking on the beach, and unusual adventures, the invitation to go “mudlarking” on the Thames was too intriguing to pass up. I’ve always wanted to join in on an archeological dig, and this was a good opportunity to practice what I call “archeology by intuition”, asking myself where I should look, dig, or scavenge based on my sixth sense of where things would be found.

Mudlarking is essentially scavenging or “beachcombing” along the banks of the Thames at low tide. I did not realize how extreme the tides were in the river. One can see from the bridges and embankments that the river’s flow sometimes slows down or stops altogether, but I never realized that large swatches of riverbank become exposed during the extreme low tides.

My mudlarking invitation was issued by StitcherJane, at whose home we meet on Thursdays for Stitchery Group. She has an avid interest in historical London, and informed us that we would find bits of artifacts from hundreds of years ago. We rendezvoused at Cannon Street station so that we would walk down the hill on Cousin’s Lane and wind up at the Thames between Southwark Bridge and London Bridge. There were some very slimy steps leading down to what she referred to as the “foreshore”.

I had been duly warned to dress warmly, as it can be quite windy at the level of the river. Indeed, when I woke up on Monday morning, it was overcast and 39 degrees F. I made sure I was wearing layers and a waterproof jacket for the inevitable rain. I had also donned my brand-new Wellies, which are waterproof boots. StitcherJane had also recommended bringing germ-proof latex gloves. In addition to those, my backpack also contained: plastic bags for storing the “haul”, germicidal hand-gel, a towel, in case anyone got wet, a warm wool hat, warm gloves to wear underneath the industrial-strength latex cleaning gloves, my camera, keys, and Oyster (travel) card.

Why all the Universal precautions, you may ask? StitcherJane had warned me that not only was the river water not necessarily clean, but we might encounter ground or objects which had been contaminated by rat urine. I know that there are rats near the river, having had a run-in with a large one while staying in the Globe View apartments last year, but I never really thought about their urine and the diseases it could spread. Apparantly there was just an unfortunate incident of a woman dying from Weil’s Disease after attempting to free a rat from her bird feeder. I made sure I was wearing old clothes that could be chucked out in case of contamination.
We descended the algae- and mud-slimed steps down from the embankment onto a thirty-foot wide strip of what appeared to be stones. It stretched for about a quarter-mile downstream from our entry point. It was immediately clear that the hat and gloves would be necessary to combat the cold wind down at river level.

I started picking my way along the “beach”. On closer inspection, many of the brown “stones” that littered the beach were actually animals’ bones. We were at the site of an abattoir, a slaughterhouse that had been in use for centuries. When they were done slaughtering the animals, they had just chucked the bones and other waste into the river. The area has not been used for that purpose for decades, so it was unbelievable to me that waste from that era had not been completely washed away. I could identify jawbones, ribs, bits of broken bone from both cattle and sheep.

The next item I recognized were chunks of flint in all shapes and sizes. Flint is the stone used by ancient people for sharp objects such as arrowheads, knives, and as a fire-starter stone. I had never seen in in situ in such a large quantity before. There were all kinds of twisted blobby shapes looking almost like black glass, with a chalky covering on them. Many of them were tiny bits, but there were large heavy ones with holes in them, holes caused by the softer chalk being worn away by the elements.

There were also a lot of fist-sized soft white lumps, which were actually chalk.
StitcherJane had told us that we might find bits of pottery from centuries ago, so I concentrated on finding these smaller pieces. I found that by bending a little at the waist, it was quite easy to spot these bits of pottery. Most were an inch or two in diameter, and clearly had been part of plates, bowls, mugs and pots. The easiest to spot were the blue-and-white porcelain transferware, embellished with floral and country motifs. Underneath the mud and algae, these showed an even crackled pattern that showed their age to be between a hundred and two hundred years old. There were also less pretty, but probably more valuable bits of “slipware”, hand-thrown earthenware with a slip-coat of thin mud applied to it. These were in earthenware colors, and some had been glazed with darker glaze. These were from the seventeenth century and beyond. Two pieces of earthenware with dark green glaze were later identified as being of Tudor origin by StitcherJane.

Also easy to spot were tiny white tubes about an inch or so in length. I was told these were pipe stems that dated back to when the New World crop of tobacco arrived in the British Isles. They were lying amongst the bones and stones in a very casual way, as if they had just been spat there by a smoking sailor.

Further picking amongst the rubble showed a couple of pieces of fluted limestone, which had probably ornamented a building, another piece of limestone carved “18xx” in inch-high letters, an iron ring, and broken bricks with part of the maker’s name stamped into them. Our fearless leader informed us that some of what we were finding showed evidence of charing. Whenever there was a fire, such as the “Great Fire” of 1666, the remaining rubble was just shoveled down to the edge of the river and tipped in. She then mentioned that all of the terra-cotta slightly-curved broken slabs containing one hole were actually Roman roof tiles. That’s right, Roman Roof Tiles. Tiles from 46 AD and up. That’s 46 AD, folks. Broken bits of Roman roof tiles just laying there today on the shores of the Thames. They have so many of them at the Museum of London that they don’t even care about those that are still there. I presume that new loads of antique rubbish get revealed with each low tide, but I will have to go back to confirm this. I was absolutely enchanted by the tiles. I am particularly interested in the era that includes the arrival of the Roman conquerors in England, and the clash of cultures and religious beliefs that must have occurred at the time. Holding the roof tiles in my gloved hands really gave me a thrill. I kept pouncing on the best ones and loading them into a flimsy plastic bag. Finally, my bags of loot filled the backpack and I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry any more.
How are regular people allowed to take this stuff, you may ask. Stitcher Jane informed me that one only needs to get a Mudlarking permit if one is going to either use a metal detector, or dig down more than 3 inches. I was just using a plastic picnic knife to turn over one object at a time, and wasn’t really digging at all. The knife was being used just to protect me from anything sharp that I might encounter, like a needle or cut glass. I didn’t run into anything of that sort at all.
We slowly picked our way down the “beach” of stones, bones, china, and roof tiles. Most of the ladies were concentrating their efforts down near the edge of the water, but I figured that the oldest items would be up closest to the embankment and near the steps, which would have been closest to the edges of the old Roman settlement. In the 19th or 20th century the Cannon Street railroad bridge had it’s foundation laid there, which probably stirred up several layers of previous cultures.

Further down we encountered a gush of fresh water coming out of a pipe which stretched 12 feet high up the embankment. It looked like pretty clean water, not like water from a sewer pipe or storm drain would. I “tuned in” with my super-powers, and got two bits of information. The first was “Minerva”, which told me that it probably was a spring used by the Romans (and had probably been a pagan spring before that). The second bit was that the water was the “Walbrook”, a small stream that is now underground (brook from the Roman Wall) whose source is near a church called St. Stephen, Walbrook. I think that church was an early Sir Christopher Wren practice run-up for St. Paul’s which is quite nearby. I’ll have to check in my books.
We noticed that the area around the pipe outlet was discolored a pale tan. All of the bricks, tiles and bones looked like they had mineral deposits on them. The water, although completely clear, had a faint smell of either sulphur or some other natural substance dissolved within it. Again, more research is needed. We were indeed directly downhill from the street on which St. Stephen, Walbrook church is located, so I’ll stick with that idea as the source of the water.
Around noon we were too tired and cold to continue, so we all tromped back up the slimy steps with our loot, de-gloved, and headed back to the Cannon Street Underground station. On the way up the hill, we noticed that signs on some of the buildings indicated the ancient homes of some of the guilds that would have sprung up near the slaughterhouse: The tanner's guild, the dyer's guild, and the chandler's guild (making candles from tallow, which is animal fat).

Once I got the loot home, I rinsed it in scalding hot water and then soaked it for hours in a strong bleach solution. It was then left on a rack to air-dry for several days. But what is it for? You may be asking. A large chunk of limestone and cement from the foundations of a building (bigger than a brick, smaller than a breadbox) will be our new doorstop for the French door in the reception room. The Roman roof tiles will make fine paperweight/pen stands and might be given as gifts to those who will appreciate them. The porcelain bits and pipe stems will make some nifty dada-ist “found art” installations and murals. Of course, anything not used otherwise will be used as ballast for the flat in case of a great flood or tsunami.

I can’t remember the last time I had so much free fun. I'm looking forward to the next conveniently-timed fair weather low tide.

Little Venice Tour

Last Sunday, already a full week ago, I headed out for a guided walking tour of the Little Venice area. This is a neighborhood contiguous with Maida Vale (postcode W9), just on the other side of St. John’s Wood, that we call home. The starting point for the walk was the Warwick Avenue Underground stop, about fifteen minutes from A Flat on Abbey Road.

A group of about twelve people had gathered for the guided tour, which took us into another one of the high-rent districts in north west London. The area had originally been owned by the Bishop of London. It is full of Georgian and Regency white stucco townhomes, previously occupied by the mistresses of both wealthy men of the City and higher-ups in the Church of England hierarchy. Now the neighborhood is occupied by wealthy professional bankers, lawyers, and several prominent members of the entertainment industry.

The defining feature of Little Venice is a waterway that connects the Grand Union canal to the Regent’s Canal. The canal itself is lined with canal boats, in which Londoners of all income levels reside. The guide had us give the “Royal Wave” to Dennis of Little Venice, who lives aboard his canal boat year-round. He is an older gentleman who used to serve as an entertainment director aboard a large cruise ship, and is now retired. Apparently he looks after the garden plantings that line his particular area of the canal. We were treated to a returned “royal wave” by Dennis, who was watching for us out of one of his windows. His boat had a "gondola" (i.e. converted canoe) decorating the roof, and was also be-decked in potted flowering plants.

Much of the area also has “villas” in an Italianate architectural style, complete with “campanile” –styled faux bell towers. These single-family homes are either multi-multi-million pound residences for the very very rich, or have been carved up into a number of individual flats for the plain old very rich.

Our informative walk was punctuated by witty commentary by our guide, including “mind the slippery bits” when we were walking on wet leaves in mud, and “mind the crap” when we were on pavement that had been “fouled” by dogs.

The weather was in the high forties with a fine mist falling for part of the walk. I discovered that removing my glasses, which are mostly for close-work anyway, allowed me to enjoy the experience without having to wipe them incessantly.

I returned to A Flat on Abbey Road after a good two hours’ brisk walk. I would estimate that we covered between three and four miles, much of it along or near the canal, and all of it very enjoyable. The jaunt was capped off by a cup of tea.

Movie Review: Ghost Town, Hollywood's version of how easy it is to convince people you've heard from their late loved ones

On Friday October 31 I went alone to a movie. TeenE was up at her friend TeenH's house on Finchley Rd, North of the 02 Center. I brought her there by bus, and decided that since I was not at all jet-lagged, having only been back for one day, that I'd stay up "late" and see a movie in which Hubster probably had no interest.

I figured that "Ghost Town" was probably a good candidate, as it was Halloween, after all. Walking south on Finchley Road I encounter a few little kids being taken around in costume by parents (Americans, presumably). There were a few adults in costume, mostly young ladies in extra-skimpy outfits, such as the two large gals in leggings, tutus, and T-shirts.

Once I got to the cinema at the O2 and purchased my ticket to "Ghost Town", I had quite a long wait for the theatre to open. They were still cleaning Number 6. Various patrons kept going through a door to ask the ticket-taker if they could go in yet. No--he kept sending them back out the door to wait. When Number 6 was finally ready (about five minutes before the film's start time) the manager wouldn't let those who were asking for the first time (those currently at the ticket-taker's stand) in until he had come out and retreived those who had asked every five minutes for a half hour (yours truly).

"Ghost Town", stars British comedian Ricky Gervais (writer of The Office) as misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus, who goes in for a colonoscopy (with use of general anesthesia). After he is discharged from the hospital, he begins to see people that other people cannot, and these folks want him to help them. In a very funny scene with a doctor played by Kristin Wiig, who doesn't let him get a word in edgewise, he learns he had a reaction to the anesthesia, and his heart stopped for several minutes.

This then, is Hollywood's take on what happens to someone when they've had a near-death experience.

Bertram Pincus is asked by the ghost of a man (Greg Kinnear) whose wife (Tea Leoni) lives in his building to get a message through about the woman's new boyfriend is a gold-digger.
Dr. Pincus does NOT have the desire or the social skills to handle this assignment. When he refuses, the ghost man gives Dr. Pincus' address to ALL the other ghosts in Mid-town Manhatten (including Naked Guy--you apparantly wear as a ghost the outfit you were wearing when you died) and many others, who all show up in his bedroom.

He strikes a deal with Greg Kinnear's character to help ONLY him, so the other ghosts will all go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Pincus develops a crush on Tea Leoni's character, despite her ownership of an enormous Great Dane dog with halitosis.

Hilarity ensues as all the various plot lines get sewn up, and the viewer eventually develops a fondness for poor Dr. Pincus as he is transformed by his work with the ghosts. In fulfilling the requests of the dead to communicate with their loved ones he regains his essential humanity, and (spoiler alert!) gets the girl.

If only life were so easy for those who've had real near-death experiences or other mystical or transcendant experiences. I know quite a few, having co-led a discussion group for the purposes of their spiritual support. Many struggled with being taken seriously by those they know. Even though he initially has trouble convincing Tea Leoni that he really IS talking to her late husband, he eventually wins her over. It seems as if all the other "message from the deceased" recipients
just hear the message and their grief or lives are transformed! Some of the people I know who've had NDE's or mystical experiences of "going to the light" have been transformed into more loving beings, but struggle with the changes in themselves and how to present their new outlook on life and eternity to those they know and love. Some are so transformed by that light that you really just want to be near them so you can catch a few "rays" yourself. Some become emotionally or mentally unhinged and are then no longer able to cope with everyday life. None of the ones I know personally have been welcomed by the scientific or medical communities (with the exception of hospices) or have had a "gets the girl and lives happily-ever-after" ending.

So, as a comedic fiction about what "might" happen in this theoretical situation, this is a funny movie. I'd give it a 3 out of 5. I'd recommend it as light entertainment to anyone. But that's all it is, light entertainment (pun intended).

Cake redux, knitting, hospice update

Thursday found me waking at 6 am all refreshed, but deciding that getting up at that hour was really unnecessary, so I caught a few more zzzzz's before getting up to go to Stitchery group.
We were back at our usual location at J's on Maida Vale with Cassidy the dog and an unusually large group of stitchers.

I was able to report to them (and you, dear reader) that I had sold a few small items at Tuesday's St. John's Wood Women's Club Member's Marketplace (too much alliteration, but that's what it is). Two beaded wool brooches, the long purple shawl "Harvest Home" in autumnal shades, and I can't remember what else. None of the beaded shawls sold, too bad, but they are available for purchase by the devoted readership!!

Having over-knitted in the past week getting ready for the show, I decided to take it easy and work on the small needlepoint I purchased in NYC while I was there, called "home is where the heart is". I did miss my flat on Abbey Road containing Hubster and Teeny, and all my walks around the neighborhood while I was away from them, and thought that purchase was a good way to keep focused on the goal of returning to them with visa in hand.

After three pleasant hours of Stitchery, I took off on foot for the Home Base store up in West Hampstead near Finchley Road. I had a pleasant walk northward in the rainy mist. This is a kind of precipitation for which it is hard to dress. It's not really raining, so the raincoat is not necessary. The umbrella is useless, as the mist seems to come sideways at you while you are walking. So you just amble around in your hooded jacket, but with the hood up you can't look over your right shoulder properly to check for any buses that might be materializing just as you start to cross the side street. The only solution is to keep the hood down and let the mist gently frizz up your hair as well as spot up your glasses.

Operation Home Base included procuring lots of little light bulbs for various light fixtures in the flat. While there, I also bought a few other householdy-things. The store is a cross between a Home Depot and a store that sells small appliances and home decor items like candles and dried arrangements. I stayed out of the garden shop and avoided all the Xmas decorations. On my walk I had noticed that lots of potted, 4 foot tall evergreens had been placed outside of buildings. Around the pot rims were red cyclamens, as the hard frost has not hit here yet.
I resisted all the cheery pointsettias, and looked in vain for a package of "dishwasher salt" to reduce the lime deposits and general gunkiness in the dishwasher. There was nothing of the sort to be seen.

While at the checkout, I asked the helpful young man if they sold "dishwasher salt". They did, he said, down past the lumber. Did I need a large quantity? I had just figured it came in a box or jar or something. What was a large quantity? No sooner had these words left my lips than a woman approached with a cart ("trolley") FILLED with four BAGS of dishwasher salt. These bags were larger than the large sacks of ice-melting salt that we buy in New England. They must have weighed fifty pounds each. Either this gal does a LOT of dishes, was buying them for some industrial application, or has a water-softener system for the whole house (see Lunch at John Stuart Mill's House posted previously).

As it was nearing 3 pm by this time I set out from Home Base to catch a bus that deposited me right on Circus Road near Sir You-Know-Who's house and the Dangerous Hospital Driveway. I managed to make it the rest of the way home without incident, except for the realization that the annoying dry sensation in my mouth really was an oncoming migraine. I retired to bed with a pill for a short nap, and awoke to make us sweet and sour pork for dinner.

Tomorrow will be Tidy Friday and Baking Day.

Oooh!! Cake Update. Last week I went through the hospital corridors to get to the pharmacy (see migraine pill above) and saw the Famous Fabian, Blogstar. He had been looking for me to say how much he enjoyed the sour cream coffee cake that I had delivered to Reception before I left for the US. I don't think he realized that I had been away from London. He was so effusively enthusiastic about the cake, which he reported that he had NOT shared with Dr. D or anyone else except one other receptionist, that I was inspired to bring around another baked creation. This time, I tried a new recipe introduced to me over the summer by Brother-in-Law Tom, that of Texas Sheet Cake. I added a few extra ingredients and renamed it Mayan Sheet Cake. I kept one round pan for us, and brought the other around to the hospital around 4 pm.
Alas, Fabian had gone home for the night, but the receptionists on duty were only too happy to take it off my hands.

I went back on Monday to collect my pan and saw Fabian. He was disconsolate that he had missed the Mayan-inspired creation. His co-workers had called him at home to tell him about it, and he said he was almost tempted (on a Friday evening) to turn around and come back. It's probably a good thing he didn't, as I hear that the cake was inhaled by the other staff, once again NOT including the ubiquitious doctor. I guess he's not so ubiquitous after all, as he has not been in the right place at the right time for the past two cakes.

If I get my homework done on time, I shall attempt another caking. If not, I'll bring it around on Saturday morning, when I have to go over to the hospital for.... Hospice volunteer training. That's right, you heard it here first. My "CRB" (Criminal Record Check) form has made it through the system and I am in proud possession of an official-looking certificate which states that I do not have a criminal record!! Now I can be enrolled as a hospice volunteer, which is something I planned on doing here since the move was first formulated. The training will be about cultural sensitivity. The book the in-laws just sent us, called "The Anglo Files" by Sarah Lyall, will come in especially handy!

Sleep, Play, IKEA-fication, and gross gunk

I see it's been almost a week since I last wrote. The post-election-euphoria crash combined, I think, with the crash predicted by the American School psychologist during orientation. That is, November, with its early sunset, the sun not rising 30 degrees above the horizon even at noon, (if you can find it behind the buildings/cloud cover), and getting over the initial culture-shock and push of settling-in all conspire to produce a let-down that can trigger a huge energy slump. So I'm not surprised, just... tired. Add to this to the vestiges of jet lag from my recent trip to the east coast of the US, and the neighbor downstairs who wakes me at 1, 3 and 4 am with his shenanigans, and I'm not really getting up until 10 am. Fortunately, TeenE and Hubster sleep through the nighttime neighbor naughtiness.

TeenE continues to spend afternoons after school rehearsing for the play "And Then They Came for Me", about Ann Frank and her friend. The friend survived the holocaust, and lives in St. John's Wood, and is a consultant to the play. The parent meeting of Friends of the Arts at ASL
on Friday will give us more information about the show. TeenE tells me it's going to be very intense. She is in the "company", and needs "company shoes", whatever they are, and a leotard "for the concentration camp scenes".

Our IKEA order that we placed online in early October has finally been delivered. It arrived on Saturday. Every day since then I have weilded my trusty Phillips-head screwdriver and made good progress on a piece of furniture. So far, a bed-side table, a set of drawers for TeenE's desk, two shelf units to hold up our desk, and the desk-top with legs have been assembled. At some point I will tackle the garment rack and the two tall bookcases. Now we can see the top surface of our dining room table again.

Yesterday I had lunch with MomA at her flat on Maida Vale. She casually mentioned that with the hard water in this area, you are supposed to put dishwasher salt in the special dispenser in the dishwasher. I had never heard of this, and set out to find out if our unit had such a thing. Sure enough, it did. And it was really clogged with black, soapy, waxy, grimy, moldy GUNK. I decided to check out the other parts in the bottom of the dishwasher. I had already cleared out the screen that sifts out food particles (twice), but this time, after lifting it out, I decided to check on the lattice-work column upon which it sits. Ewwwww. I kept discovering that this mechanism came apart in more ways than one could imagine. And with each layer that I pried apart, there were more and more deposits of unspeakably disgusting GUNK. I whipped on the latex gloves and was finally grateful for the scalding-hot water that comes out of the tap. I poked through the hundreds of miniscule holes in the main column with a pin. I scrubbed all the outer surfaces with a scrubbie pad. I cleared out the crevices with cotton swabs. I soaked and re-soaked those suckers until there was no goo left. Now I just have to figure out how to put the (*&^% contraption back together again so we can use the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I am hand-washing everything. Just when there was a relative lull in the laundry...

Quiet day in NW8

It was a quiet day in NW8 today.

The leftover laundering proceeded apace in the am, then I went out to Stitchery Group. This is a subset of women from the St. John's Wood Women's Club. We met at stitcher Mary's house, which is just across the street from the driveway where I nearly got run over yesterday, and across and down the very same street as Sir You-Know-Who, who presumably is ensconced in the love nest with the latest love interest.

While at Mary's, about eight of us got caught up on the election coverage and topics of more personal interest. Every time someone came to the front door, her two wire-haired dachshunds would erupt in a cacophony of barking. I decided that I had had so much success at "dog whispering" Erica's huge black lab into submitting to me as alpha dog, that I'd go down to her lower level (the dogs cannot climb stairs) and tell a thing or two to Gus (a sweetie-pie) and Gracie (more cranky). Gus immediately recognized my alpha status and rolled over on his back to have his belly scratched. Gracie took about 30 seconds longer, then did the same thing. When a repairman came, he was able to run the gauntlet of the doggies while I kept them distracted with tummy rubs. I have two new canine friends in London! I told Mary I'd walk them any time, which I would do even if she didn't live on the same street as a certain musician.

When we left Cavendish Ave around 1:30 the day was so overcast that there was no telling in what direction the sun might have been located, or whether it had even cleared the tops of the buildings that day. The rest of the afternoon was taken up with sorting mail, paying bills, and, surprise! More laundry. I think that by tomorrow I may be all caught up from the backlog.

I'm hoping to hear from my readers; everyone's been very quiet this week. I think a lot of people stayed up late to watch the election returns...

Another Fine Day in London-town

I couldn't imagine that any day could have been better than yesterday, what with seeing a world-known celebrity on one corner of NW8 and a local celebrity on the next. No wonder I like that "back way" to the Hi Street that consists of Circus Road. It's certainly a celebrity circus!
I must say, however that today turned out to be even better. I wasn't sure the US was ready for the progressive energy of a non-republican, non-warrior president, but awakened to find out that the person for whom I had voted had actually won the election. This is only the third election since 1980 in which this has happened, and it's very gratifying. I empathize with those who are disappointed, having spent twenty-two of the last twenty-eight years (and all of my adult life but eight years) being disappointed, frustrated, and enraged in varying degrees with the policies and actions of my government. It is the "heartland's" turn to learn how to yield graciously without resorting to name-calling and other vituperative strategies. I pray we can all behave ourselves.
First up on the social calendar today was a coffee at the home of another American School/London parent. This coffee featured a speaker, a parent who works for the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), and who was there to speak to the other parents (all Moms) about the differences in the teen drug cultures in the US and the London area. I've always felt that any school that says there are no drugs on campus is either clueless or lying, so I was glad to see this issue addressed by the PTO.
We learned about the US drug user's "culture of stimulants" (cocaine, etc) vs the UK's "culture of depressants". One would think that those in the US are already over-stimulated enough, what with all the Starbucks, and that those in the UK are already depressed enough, what with all the pubs.

We learned that 35% of all 10th graders in the US have tried illegal drugs, and 75% of all US High School Seniors (including alcohol, which, in the US, is illegal until age 21).
We learned that teens drink openly earlier, as the age at which one can buy a beer or wine WITH a meal in the UK is 16. Whether this is earlier than US teens drink on the sly is open to debate. I think probably not.

We also learned that within a five-minute bus ride from the school, in a place where many of them congregate, a student can be exposed to people dealing all sorts of substances.
We learned that within a two-minute WALK from the school there is a known nexus of marijuana activity on a street called Abbey Road, (ever heard of it?) and that this spot is directly across from our flat. So much for the safe "leafy" neighborhood theory!! This area includes a row of stores where one can buy milk, get one's hair done, and get physical therapy. The one time I went down to buy milk there, there were some shady characters. Now I know why.

I had to leave that talk early in order to rendezvous with an old pal from my University College London days, Mr. A.S. We had kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he was one of the people that called to wish me Happy Birthday on the Big 5-Oh. We had known each other from our days in the UCL Drama Society, and Hubster and I visited with him and his girlfriend (now wife) on our honeymoon here in 1986.
We had much to catch up on: the move, the economy, turning 50, the election, how my idea for a documentary about Abbey Road might come about (he has connections in the TV world) etc.
I have to write up my "pitch" and he might be able to get it in front of the right people.
After lunch I strolled around the Regent St/Carnaby Street area, and found the bead shop that I had spotted while Son was here. This time it was open, but sadly does not carry the right beads for my knitted projects.
A quick ride home on the 139 bus and I was ready to work on some of the projects I am getting ready for the St. John's Wood Women's Club Annual Holiday Marketplace on 11/11. Time is running short...
TeenE is getting ready to catch a ride to the American Church in London (on Tottenham Court Road), whose choir will be singing at the Thanksgiving Day Service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Yes, you read that right. Naturally we will be attending that service!!