We drove up from Canterbury to York yesterday... via Norwich. A bit of a diversion, but we did get here eventually.
I saw the funniest thing I ever saw yesterday. A guy was riding his bike up the wrong side of a busy street, no helmet, a fag hanging out of his mouth, shouting "#&$^# it!" into his mobile phone. It struck me as the stupidest, silliest and most hilarious thing I have seen. Had to be there I guess.
English people swear a lot, too, by the way.
There were painted elephants all through Norwich, too. Great big ones.
When we were at the Cathedral in Norwich we bought a CD of choir music based on the "shewings" of Julian of Norwich and we listened to that in the car all the way up here. It was absolutely beautiful.
Now we are in York, we are amusing ourselves with finding out how many things end in "-by". Whitby, Kirkby, Brawby, Helperby, Roxby, Slingsby, Whenby, Newby, Duggleby... they go on and on!
Today we crammed as much into York as we could in one day. This morning we went through the Minster, and I even joined David to climb the 275 steps up to the top of the centre tower. Wow! What a view! What vertigo! The Minster is beautiful, and what is most special is that they have preserved parts of the Roman undercroft so you can see column bases, bits of wall, and even some beautifully painted plaster.
Then we wandered down the tiny medieval shopping precinct in York. There is one street called "The Shambles" where there are lots of boutique stores. We went in the Teddy Bear and Tea Rooms, where there were all sorts of collectible bears, and we had a cream tea upstairs.
After we went back to get the car, we drove out to Howard Castle, a stately home which would have been even more beautiful if the sun had been shining. We've had lots of rain today so we couldn't enjoy the grounds.
We tried after walking a mile through a farm to reach a deserted medieval village but we decided the reason it was deserted was that everyone who lived there got lost on the farm going back after going to the shops and decided they couldn't be bothered, just like us.
Then we drove home and got lost in York, which was rather funny, too.
I have been a misery guts today. Because of the humidity, or the washing powder, or something, I have horrible prickly heat. The only thing that will stop the prickly heat is Benadryl, which also makes me feel a bit sick and sleepy. So this morning I was sick and sleepy (not good when you are climbing up 275 steps to the top of a tall tower) and then this afternoon because we got stuck in the rain and the breeze, my shoulder froze up and I've been grumbling about that too.
Sproggies, I miss you so much. We have bought you some lovely presents (and for others too). We're going to visit Auntie Marie and Uncle Bob tomorrow, before going to Bath.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
It's all over, even the shouting
Today was the concluding Eucharist for Lambeth 2008.
The service itself was reason enough to weep. Intertwined amongst the foreign language parts of the liturgy were the a capella sung responses such as the alleluia which the bishops and their spouses had been doing all through the conference in their corporate worship. In the cavernous, airy, holy space of Canterbury Cathedral, the multilayered unaccompanied harmonies were quite literally spine tingling and you could sense the regret when they had to come to an end.
Rowan preached immensely, beautifully, simply. He talked about telling our stories, but in the way of stories told about the Holy Spirit, in a way which would Make Things Happen. As a writer for the church, it was inspiring. But as a communion, it was wonderful to be sent out with a task that is far less than that which was given to the apostles, and which in their time led to something so immense. What will our story telling bring?
A piece called the Compass Rose had been composed especially for the service. It transcended beautiful. It was music that bypassed your head, even your heart, and went straight through to your soul. The choir sang it, and it sounded like they sang it to their absolute limits, but in that huge space there are no limits. I couldn’t help myself – tears were running down my face and I was not the only one.
The really heart breaking part of the service was when it was all over. This was a special occasion in which the 7 Melanesian Brothers who were murdered in their attempts to secure peace in the Solomon Islands, were having their names received in to the book of martyrs, to be placed in the Martyrs Chapel in the Cathedral.
I had the privilege of interviewing Brother Richard Carter last year, an English Priest who joined the Melanesian Brothers and who stayed for seventeen years, and who worked with them as they tried to get people to disarm in the time of Harold Keke. He was there with his Brothers and Sisters today, even though he is now a priest at St Martin’s in the Fields. After the Archbishop of Canterbury had read out the names of the seven, the Brothers and Sisters sang a litany as the book was taken back to the chapel. Even though it was a litany of grief and their pain was real, it was still a song of joy. We have lot to learn from the Melanesians. (I must write about the conversation I had with Winston Halapua, Bishop of Polynesia, earlier this week!)
Then the service ended and I had to leave. There were a few bishops to say goodbye to, particularly Suheil Dawani and his beautiful wife Shafeeqa (Jerusalem) and some of my local bishops and some of the bishops I’d met and said hello to.
But then I had to say goodbye to the people who have been my friends and colleagues over the last three weeks. It was so hard. I had to swallow the lump in my throat and just give them all a quick cuddle, warn Chris (the Justin Timberlake lookalike with whom I danced all night on Thursday) to stay away from my daughters when he comes to visit me one day, and then thank the marvellous people of the C of E and Lambeth Palace who have made me so welcome as a communications person at the conference. Even though Darin from the Primate’s office is only in Brisbane, saying goodbye to him was hard too – we’ll be a long way apart but I suspect we would have a wonderful time working together.
I feel like a different person. I don’t feel up to explaining it all now, but I love my church. I really, really love it. I have so much fear and hope for it. I’m very sad to be leaving Canterbury and this amazing chapter of my life behind. I feel quite transformed
The service itself was reason enough to weep. Intertwined amongst the foreign language parts of the liturgy were the a capella sung responses such as the alleluia which the bishops and their spouses had been doing all through the conference in their corporate worship. In the cavernous, airy, holy space of Canterbury Cathedral, the multilayered unaccompanied harmonies were quite literally spine tingling and you could sense the regret when they had to come to an end.
Rowan preached immensely, beautifully, simply. He talked about telling our stories, but in the way of stories told about the Holy Spirit, in a way which would Make Things Happen. As a writer for the church, it was inspiring. But as a communion, it was wonderful to be sent out with a task that is far less than that which was given to the apostles, and which in their time led to something so immense. What will our story telling bring?
A piece called the Compass Rose had been composed especially for the service. It transcended beautiful. It was music that bypassed your head, even your heart, and went straight through to your soul. The choir sang it, and it sounded like they sang it to their absolute limits, but in that huge space there are no limits. I couldn’t help myself – tears were running down my face and I was not the only one.
The really heart breaking part of the service was when it was all over. This was a special occasion in which the 7 Melanesian Brothers who were murdered in their attempts to secure peace in the Solomon Islands, were having their names received in to the book of martyrs, to be placed in the Martyrs Chapel in the Cathedral.
I had the privilege of interviewing Brother Richard Carter last year, an English Priest who joined the Melanesian Brothers and who stayed for seventeen years, and who worked with them as they tried to get people to disarm in the time of Harold Keke. He was there with his Brothers and Sisters today, even though he is now a priest at St Martin’s in the Fields. After the Archbishop of Canterbury had read out the names of the seven, the Brothers and Sisters sang a litany as the book was taken back to the chapel. Even though it was a litany of grief and their pain was real, it was still a song of joy. We have lot to learn from the Melanesians. (I must write about the conversation I had with Winston Halapua, Bishop of Polynesia, earlier this week!)
Then the service ended and I had to leave. There were a few bishops to say goodbye to, particularly Suheil Dawani and his beautiful wife Shafeeqa (Jerusalem) and some of my local bishops and some of the bishops I’d met and said hello to.
But then I had to say goodbye to the people who have been my friends and colleagues over the last three weeks. It was so hard. I had to swallow the lump in my throat and just give them all a quick cuddle, warn Chris (the Justin Timberlake lookalike with whom I danced all night on Thursday) to stay away from my daughters when he comes to visit me one day, and then thank the marvellous people of the C of E and Lambeth Palace who have made me so welcome as a communications person at the conference. Even though Darin from the Primate’s office is only in Brisbane, saying goodbye to him was hard too – we’ll be a long way apart but I suspect we would have a wonderful time working together.
I feel like a different person. I don’t feel up to explaining it all now, but I love my church. I really, really love it. I have so much fear and hope for it. I’m very sad to be leaving Canterbury and this amazing chapter of my life behind. I feel quite transformed
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tortoises, homesickness and the rollercoaster of the anglican communion
This week, characterised as it has been by humidity, holy huddles and driving deadlines, has been on the lower end of the "wow-aren't-I-having-a-great-time" scale. There have been extreme highlights, however, and they have all been unexpected.
But first, tortoises.
We had a storm the other night. It was a big thunderstorm, and I spent the duration of it sleeping on the carpeted bathroom floor. When we went down for our breakfast the next day, our host Lisa said she was a bit worried that when it had started raining, she realised she hadn't brought the tortoises in and she didn't know if they liked getting wet. It was the sweetest thing - but it also made me realise that I should have had faith that at some point God would reveal why I was inspired to add tortoises to my Google news feed.
Then, later that day, we passed a sign that said roast tortoise, until we got closer, and realised it said roast topside.
Purple highlights - and lowlights.
I felt extraordinarily out of sorts the day after the storm. Very homesick and having forgotten my happy pills two days in a row, my head felt more thundery than the skies. The topic of the day was rather intense - basically, the abuse of women, both in the wider world and in the church. It was an extremely confronting topic. I assigned myself to covering it, and attend the Big Top where the bishops and spouses were put together.
I have sworn the Official Anglican Secrets Act so I'm not allowed to reveal details, lest I be hurled into the fiery pits forever. I can however reveal that there was a dramatisation of the Gospels that wove together the story of the woman who was to be stoned for adultery, Jairus' daughter, the prodigal son (only this one was the prodigal daughter) and the woman who touched the hem of Jesus' robe to seek relief from her haemorrhaging. It was... shattering.
It wasn't just the powerful acting and the even more powerful denoument where the women are healed and revived, only to remain in the way of women across the world: tolerated only when young, useful or invisible.
It wasn't just the emotional temperature that gradually rose in the tent as this group of immensely powerful people were confronted with the hypocrisy of the church.
It was knowing that here I was, face to face with flesh and blood sisters who will go back to communities where women are traded, beaten, used for sex, reviled, raped as instruments of warfare, and forgotten about, again and again. The moving story I watched on stage was the reality of womanhood for many in that tent.
I have always been a feminist. I've always cared deeply and become very angry. I've always had a strong intellectual grounding and a visceral desire for equality for women. But on Tuesday, God broke my heart for it, and I realised, it's not enough to just care, or get upset, or shed tears.
Women like me need to be confronted with women like them - the interconnectedness and the bigness of that to which we belong came together very powerfully this week. I hope to be able to listen carefully to where the Holy Spirit leads me in this - not for my sake, but because it is what the Lord requires. You cannot look at these women and not require it of yourself.
A story I wrote on it was later quashed. I won't go into why. But that was a definite lowlight but again, if I care for my eternal soul I dare not go into detail.
Yesterday I was able to film the Archbishop of Melbourne with some of the bishops of the Sudan. It was very moving also.
Today I was able to get my own back on that reporter. Today was very important - the press conference was along the theme of human sexuality, which is of course The Big One (as far as the media are concerned, anyway). This woman didn't bother turnign up for the very encouraging and frank presentations by those giving the conference today. she turned up fifteen minutes late with her lunch in her hand and then jumped up and down ('pick me! pick me!') with her hand in the air... and was overlooked.
Incensed that her Divine Right to be Picked At A Press Conference had been thus transgressed she flounced up to the media officer for the Primate of Australia and asked why journalists weren't being given an opportunity to ask questions (that is,all the journalists except the fifteen or so who did ask questions because they were there in a timely manner). I butted in (now there's a hint) and told her that with all due respect, if she was going to turn up ten minutes late she shouldn't expect to be given any favours at all. I don't know that she responded - I don't care. Media Officer was very happy with me.
It is incredibly hot and sticky and it smells like barbecue all over the campus. Before it smelled like burning horse poo so I guess that's an improvement.
But first, tortoises.
We had a storm the other night. It was a big thunderstorm, and I spent the duration of it sleeping on the carpeted bathroom floor. When we went down for our breakfast the next day, our host Lisa said she was a bit worried that when it had started raining, she realised she hadn't brought the tortoises in and she didn't know if they liked getting wet. It was the sweetest thing - but it also made me realise that I should have had faith that at some point God would reveal why I was inspired to add tortoises to my Google news feed.
Then, later that day, we passed a sign that said roast tortoise, until we got closer, and realised it said roast topside.
Purple highlights - and lowlights.
I felt extraordinarily out of sorts the day after the storm. Very homesick and having forgotten my happy pills two days in a row, my head felt more thundery than the skies. The topic of the day was rather intense - basically, the abuse of women, both in the wider world and in the church. It was an extremely confronting topic. I assigned myself to covering it, and attend the Big Top where the bishops and spouses were put together.
I have sworn the Official Anglican Secrets Act so I'm not allowed to reveal details, lest I be hurled into the fiery pits forever. I can however reveal that there was a dramatisation of the Gospels that wove together the story of the woman who was to be stoned for adultery, Jairus' daughter, the prodigal son (only this one was the prodigal daughter) and the woman who touched the hem of Jesus' robe to seek relief from her haemorrhaging. It was... shattering.
It wasn't just the powerful acting and the even more powerful denoument where the women are healed and revived, only to remain in the way of women across the world: tolerated only when young, useful or invisible.
It wasn't just the emotional temperature that gradually rose in the tent as this group of immensely powerful people were confronted with the hypocrisy of the church.
It was knowing that here I was, face to face with flesh and blood sisters who will go back to communities where women are traded, beaten, used for sex, reviled, raped as instruments of warfare, and forgotten about, again and again. The moving story I watched on stage was the reality of womanhood for many in that tent.
I have always been a feminist. I've always cared deeply and become very angry. I've always had a strong intellectual grounding and a visceral desire for equality for women. But on Tuesday, God broke my heart for it, and I realised, it's not enough to just care, or get upset, or shed tears.
Women like me need to be confronted with women like them - the interconnectedness and the bigness of that to which we belong came together very powerfully this week. I hope to be able to listen carefully to where the Holy Spirit leads me in this - not for my sake, but because it is what the Lord requires. You cannot look at these women and not require it of yourself.
A story I wrote on it was later quashed. I won't go into why. But that was a definite lowlight but again, if I care for my eternal soul I dare not go into detail.
Yesterday I was able to film the Archbishop of Melbourne with some of the bishops of the Sudan. It was very moving also.
Today I was able to get my own back on that reporter. Today was very important - the press conference was along the theme of human sexuality, which is of course The Big One (as far as the media are concerned, anyway). This woman didn't bother turnign up for the very encouraging and frank presentations by those giving the conference today. she turned up fifteen minutes late with her lunch in her hand and then jumped up and down ('pick me! pick me!') with her hand in the air... and was overlooked.
Incensed that her Divine Right to be Picked At A Press Conference had been thus transgressed she flounced up to the media officer for the Primate of Australia and asked why journalists weren't being given an opportunity to ask questions (that is,all the journalists except the fifteen or so who did ask questions because they were there in a timely manner). I butted in (now there's a hint) and told her that with all due respect, if she was going to turn up ten minutes late she shouldn't expect to be given any favours at all. I don't know that she responded - I don't care. Media Officer was very happy with me.
It is incredibly hot and sticky and it smells like barbecue all over the campus. Before it smelled like burning horse poo so I guess that's an improvement.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
A Very Big Church and Aussie Bishops
Yesterday began with the normal rush to have breakfast done in time for Jane to head up the hill on the bus in time for her to get the mill that is Lambeth and all that involves. Each day is somewhat calmer in getting started, although I am usually out the door by around 9.30. Yesterday I was off a bit earlier than that as I had to catch the train to London. I got myself all prepared in time, and with lots of time to spare to buy my ticket and arrived at the station only to find the ticket booth closed. The only other member of the station staff said to me, and the many other people waiting to buy tickets not to worry as the ticket salesman would be back in time. Needless to say that he wasn't and along with others I had to scramble to get a ticket from a machine at the front of the station. While I was buying my ticket the train pulled into the station, and I managed to get on with a minute to spare. The best laid plans nearly come undone. Other than this little hurdle I had a really good day.
The train journey was as pleasant as it has been the other times that I have headed into London. My goals for the day were to go to St Paul's Cathedral and then to go to Greenwich to the Royal Observatory. The train got into London just after 11.30 and I headed off to the cathedral from Charing Cross. It took about 40 minutes to walk there. As I walked up Ludgate towards the Cathedral I was stunned at the presence of the building has over the streets around it. It is a truly imposing building in a way that the older cathedrals that I have visited didn't seem to have. They are all beautiful and stunning and clearly set out to do what their builders wanted them to do, but there is something at St Paul's that is almost overwhelming. And this is all before I have even got in the front doors and paid my 10 pounds to get in.
Just after I had walked in the doors and was just starting to get an impression of the space inside the Cathedral, there was an announcement that a communion service would be starting in 10 minutes and that all were welcome to join in. Well I wasn't going to miss out on that. While the service was not meant to be anything other than a normal daily communion service it was very special to be able to worship under the dome in St Paul's Cathedral, London. While I was sitting there waiting for the service to begin, I was able to take in some of the different things that make up the interior of the Cathedral. Again, the inside is truly beautiful, very Roman in style, almost unanglican you could say, but I loved it. disappointingly, the service was just rattled off the priest who was taking it, leaving no space for anyone pray during the liturgy. It was all over in 20 minutes flat and that included at least 60 people receiving the sacrament. For all that though it was worth putting up with someone almost going through the motions to have worshipped in that place.
After the service I was able to take my time and wander around and discover all the many things that make up this most amazing place. This took quite a while to get around. To finish off my time in St Paul's I was able to walk up all the staircases that take you to the golden gallery which almost at the very top of St Paul's. 500 steps to get there and going through two other galleries on the way. One is inside the church, called the Whispering Gallery and is at the point where there the dome meets the walls. The next two are outside, the first being the Stone Gallery which you walk around the outside of the dome, which is 119 steps above the Whispering Gallery and then anther 152 to get to the top. With the 258 to get from the floor to the Whispering Gallery, that is over 500. I was a bit puffed by the time that I got to the top, and a very kind man took a picture of me looking out over London. Proof for you to see.
This had all taken so long that my plans to get to Greenwich had run out of time, as I had to get back to Canterbury so that Jane and I could go and have dinner with all of the Australian Bishops. I don't know, you go to anther country to avoid the people you work with and get stuck with them anyway. It turned out to be a very pleasant evening, catching up with Bp Paul Richardson who was on the same table as us, he was an honourary Australian for the night. We headed off when enough red wine had been consumed and the all the unplanned speeches began.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Canterbury Tales
We have both spent the last few days in Canterbury since our jaunt to London. Friday I wandered up to the oldest parish church in England only to find it closed, but I had a good wander around the church, and you can very clearly see where different bits have been added on at different times in history. Friday, along with last few days have actually been quite warm, unpleasantly so. Not so much hot as we would be getting at home at the height of summer, but very, very humid. I have been walking around with a lot just to see what is here. In the end the heat and humidity beat after what had been long day I had some quiet time until it cooled down in the evening and then went for another long walk around Canterbury, finding all sorts of interesting old buildings and left over bits of places. It was very pleasant.
Saturday morning I again headed out to St Martin's Church and found it open this time. The building dates back to at the very least, the year 580 as a church and probably longer than that. The oldest part of the building was in use in the 370's and was built during the Roman period. That finished in 410. There are bits and pieces of this building dating from all over the place. After leaving there and having had a pleasant chat to a couple of members of the church, I made my way to the Roman Museum of Canterbury. While it was interesting, with many household style bits and pieces there, although they had on display a bowl that scratched into the bottom a Chi Rho, or the first two letters of Christ in Greek. It was dug up from a grave. In the last part of the museum there were the remains of the floor a Roman house which had a mosaic that was in the floor. This was revealed when a large part of the old city, inside the walls of Canterbury was bombed during World War 2.
After leaving there, this led to more wandering around discovering all sorts of things from the past, such the mill races from water wheel driven mills and then into the hospital of St Thomas A'Beckett. This and the last place that I went and spent time at on Saturday, Greyfriars Chapel, turned out to be very special, well for me at least. The hospital was built to provide a place of hospitality (hence hospital) for poor pilgrims who were making their way to the Cathedral to visit the Shrine of Thomas A'Beckett. It has been there for over eight hundred years doing pretty much the same thing ever since. Today it provides a home for a small number of poor people in Canterbury and is looked after by the local parish and the members of the Franciscan Community that has been re-established in Canterbury. I sat in the chapel, that is still used, and found that it is a very special place. It was a place that you could feel the presence of God quite strongly. A place that has been continually looking after people in God's name for over eight hundred years. One of the people who was guiding people around the hospital recommended that a visit to the Greyfriars Chapel would also be worthwhile. And it was. The chapel is built over a branch of the River Stour and I was told that it may originally have been built as a mill and had an extra story or floor some time in the past. There is a picture of the chapel over the stream. It was lovely inside and the brothers and sisters are praying specially fort the work of Lambeth. I intend to go to church there on Wednesday lunchtime. The chapel is also set in grounds that are covered in wildflowers and this is almost exactly in the centre of Canterbury.
Yesterday, we both went to the Cathedral for the main service. It was very special to be able to worship in the Cathedral. Archbishop Rowan presided and the dean, whose name I didn't get was the preacher. Of course the Cathedral was full of bishops from all over the world, although some were visiting local parishes. Our afternoon was spent getting on a local bus that first took us Whitstable and the seaside. It was a somewhat different experience to what we have at home. One of the pictures posted today is of the Whitstable beach. After this we caught the bus again and had a round trip journey back to Canterbury and a quiet dinner in a local Indian restaurant and a sleep.
Today it is still very sticky, although a cooler change is due some time today. I have had a pretty quiet day and I am off to London again tomorrow.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fifteen minutes to blog about seven vital years
Yesterday was a massive day, not least because of the logistics of organising 650 odd bishops and their spouses and sundry guests to London, whereby they would hold up traffic for half an hour and then be thanked for it by the Prime Minister.
It was an astonishing time, though, and cemented in me that understanding that this thing we call the Anglican Communion must survive. The world needs us to put our differences aside and, as Bishop Chickera said nearly two weeks ago, make our mission to be the voice of the voiceless our primary objective.
Anyway, enough preaching. You can read the articles at www.lambethconference.org.
I received an invitation to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, but I politely declined and instead went with David to the Tower of London where various queens were either beheaded or displayed disturbingly bloodthirsty tendencies. Sproggies, if you want to know if we got you what you wanted... you'll have to wait and see! (And for the non-sproggies, no it was not a pilfered royal head.)
We walked to the Tower the eighteen thousand miles (or so it felt) by the Thames, via a shoe shop so that I could buy a pair of thongs (or "flip flops" as we poms call them, har har) so that I could even up the blisters all over my feet. Now they are on the side, the bottom *and* the top. Jolly good.
I had to use the public conveniences, which patently aren't. Several miles apart and guarded by rabid dogs, they require you to pay for the privilege of not piddling your pants. Inflation has wreaked its damage - whereas my mother used to spend a penny, I was required to spend fifty of them.
Because I was crippled and had a headache from the very shouty Beefeater who took us around the Tower, we got a Real London Cab back to Charing Cross Station, with a Real London Cabbie who had a Real London Accent. He said things like "innit". It was very cool. He laughed a lot when we said something about Fenchurch St Station and he said, "Do you know it" and we both said together, "Only from Monopoly!"
I'm off to hear about how the world is going to hell in a very hot handbasket. Toodle pip.
(And tell daddy I think it's rubbish that I'm turning back into a pom. Nevah.)
It was an astonishing time, though, and cemented in me that understanding that this thing we call the Anglican Communion must survive. The world needs us to put our differences aside and, as Bishop Chickera said nearly two weeks ago, make our mission to be the voice of the voiceless our primary objective.
Anyway, enough preaching. You can read the articles at www.lambethconference.org.
I received an invitation to Buckingham Palace to have tea with the Queen, but I politely declined and instead went with David to the Tower of London where various queens were either beheaded or displayed disturbingly bloodthirsty tendencies. Sproggies, if you want to know if we got you what you wanted... you'll have to wait and see! (And for the non-sproggies, no it was not a pilfered royal head.)
We walked to the Tower the eighteen thousand miles (or so it felt) by the Thames, via a shoe shop so that I could buy a pair of thongs (or "flip flops" as we poms call them, har har) so that I could even up the blisters all over my feet. Now they are on the side, the bottom *and* the top. Jolly good.
I had to use the public conveniences, which patently aren't. Several miles apart and guarded by rabid dogs, they require you to pay for the privilege of not piddling your pants. Inflation has wreaked its damage - whereas my mother used to spend a penny, I was required to spend fifty of them.
Because I was crippled and had a headache from the very shouty Beefeater who took us around the Tower, we got a Real London Cab back to Charing Cross Station, with a Real London Cabbie who had a Real London Accent. He said things like "innit". It was very cool. He laughed a lot when we said something about Fenchurch St Station and he said, "Do you know it" and we both said together, "Only from Monopoly!"
I'm off to hear about how the world is going to hell in a very hot handbasket. Toodle pip.
(And tell daddy I think it's rubbish that I'm turning back into a pom. Nevah.)
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