Fat Rascals at Bettys
AH! LONDON
June 25, 1995
Following a visit to Ireland after Harrogate, we ended our 1995 Fat Rascal trip with two days in London, our favorite city. Here are a few high lights.
Let me tell you that crawling out of the bogs back into the London scene is not easy on the senses. I forgot just how many there are, but an important one has to do with personal economics. True, our frequent flyer coupons get us half off at the Sheraton Skyline, but they don't count for scratch at the food line. The breakfast eyeopener amounts to $15.20, and that’s for the cold stuff and coffee. There is a positive side, and it is that we are now looking for an investment in a muesli company. The fried breakfast is another fiver.
Nevertheless, that did help prepare us for the day in London. One full of sensory experiences.
Harrods, Of course!
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First off was a visit to Harrods, which should be done every two years if at all possible. Since the Saudis took over, the place is even busier and more expensive. There is now a room devoted entirely to products with the familiar Harrods Logos. You can even buy Harrods plastic carrying bags, the kind they used to give you when you made a purchase. The little trooper held up so well as we traipsed around the food halls that I suggested she treat herself to a go, so to speak, at the ladies luxury loo. The admission is £1, but after a little coaxing she agreed to the experience. And what an event it was, or so she reported. She couldn't talk about anything else for the next 45 minutes.
At her urging, I decided to try the gent's luxury loo, also for £1 admission. The ritual for gaining entrance requires standing in line in front of a the door to the loo. So that visitors won't panic, a uniformed lady attendant is posted just outside the entrance. When your turn comes, she instructs you to drop £1 into the slot and after you do, she throws you the high sign and gives the door a push. It opens, and before you can say Standard White Fixture, you are standing in a large room which is tiled from top to bottom. Along one long wall are wash basins, shelves with jars of smelly stuff, mirrors, and electric blow drying machines. Along the other is a row of tall, narrow doors, each with a little metal sign indicating either "available" or "in use". Available is in white, and in use in red, as to prevent wrong choices. The signs, however, are small, necessitating getting very close to the door to determine the status, which, if it happens to be "in use", can be embarrassing, especially if during your inspection the sign suddenly changes and you are face to face with the former tenant.
Incidently, the task of the attendant is to keep the flow of customers even. It would be unpardonable to admit a person, only for him to find that all the booths were marked in use. Well, I suppose you could stand around a drying machine pretending that you were through and just about to leave, but then, there would be the embarrassing moment when a booth became available and you were confronted with reversing your order and going for it, leaving the poor bastard who just entered standing in the lurch, or loo, as it were. Once such a chain of events began, there would be no stopping it.
Anyway, once into your booth it is entirely yours for as long as you desire. Well, I'm not absolutely sure about the occupancy rule, but let’s say plenty time enough. The booths are tall, about 12- foot ceilings, within the room itself which must be 16-feet high. If you were insecure to start, it could precipitate a bit of panic, but assuming you have a high adventure threshold, it is well worth the experience. There comes a point, as you well know, when you are finished with your business, and as a matter of conditioning reach for, or in this case search for, the paper tissue dispenser. Now, the real tests begin. There is none, in the usual sense, but instead a smallish panel which reads tissue. But there is no tissue, and worse, or so it seemed at the moment, no sign of a lever. But, reaching towards it instinctively, a quiet whirring sound is heard, and toilet tissue emerges. I can't tell you how it works, but it does. (There is still, let me say, a lingering apprehension, and that has to do with the spare, what shall we call it, roll, to which we have all become accustomed, and one might say reassured? There isn't one, and anyone who has spent anytime in an English gents knows, the spare roll is absolutely essential because as often as not the main roll is either gone or empty, leaving only a bare cardboard spool. That has to be one of the most frustrating situations of modern civilization: so close, yet so far. Thank god I didn't have to solve that one!)
As I'm sure you are anticipating, there was still the matter of flushing. You must be on to it now, there was no flusher lever to be seen in what was now turning from a comfortably private loo into a horror chamber of electronic solitary confinement. Further searching revealed what I will refer to probably incorrectly, due to lack of background in these sorts of things, as an electric eye in the wall. (No, walls I know about, it is the eye thingie that confuses me.) I admit feeling a sense of personal pride as I recall waving my hand, with a bit of a flourish admittedly, in the eye's direction and was rewarded with an instant, and one must say, sufficiently strong flush. Emerging from the private tomb is simply a matter of turning the stainless steel door handle, opening the door, and taking a couple steps forward.
All was not over, however. In spite of becoming alert to the spirit of Harrods executive gents, I had no specific expectations regarding the hand-washing business. What scared me was not the thought of automation, having learned that the fear of that is merely fear of fear itself, but rather the large, well dressed male attendant with soap, a substantial sponge, and towel in hand standing beside the row of sinks. Thankfully, a fellow client exited his vestibule just seconds prior to me, and as he did the attendant entered the empty cell with the look of a person intent upon on tiding it up. Taking advantage of the diversion, I approached the basin, waved at the spout, wetted my hands with the forthcoming water, ignored what must have been an automated detergent dispenser, genuflected in front of the drying machine, and found the exit just as the attendant emerged again.
70K March in Gay Awareness Parade
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City life! So out of Harrods, down into the Knightsbridge tube station, a short ride to Green Park, and then up the stairs to Piccadilly, and what should we find? You may have read about it in your newspaper. The police person we chatted with said there were at least 70,000 marchers in the gay awareness parade. No special protest, a marcher who was resting a bit said in answer to Theresa's question. Just having fun, she said. We watched the passing parade for about 30 fascinating minutes, and then braved our way through the line, across the street and into Green Park which by then was nearly deserted. It was only about 10:45 and so we moved on until we located a small tea shop in Berkeley Square, where a couple birds, perhaps even nightingales, were singing. Just another day in London.
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Just-finished-reading The Sunday Times Ripley here. Ah, yes, the day in Central London reminds one why they choose to go to Yorkshire Dales and the Midwest of Ireland. But if you didn't have London, you would not know that. The Times says the Gay Pride March was 40,000 as estimated by police and 120,000 as estimated by the march organizers. Splitting the difference, we have 80,000. All I know is that there were seas of people with t-shirts and costumes of all imagination, everyone having a stainless steel police whistle in their mouth, blowing them loud and constantly.
I talked with a local vendor selling hamburgers on Piccadilly sidewalk and he said his business was ruined for the day. The police edged him off the street and the Green Park police edged him out of the park where the police had directed him. He said, and The Times verified this morning, that the parade is the largest in London every year. And we were there!
Parade participants came from several countries. A fellow from Hong Kong came over "just because we don't have anything like this in Hong Kong." One wonders if there is a luxury loo in Hong Kong. Well, maybe, at The Peninsula.
The parade was in contrast with the prior day in Windsor where we were strolling along The Long Walk from Windsor Castle up to the statue of King George. For those who have been there, the surprise was the utterly blue, clear skies. Jack lived in Windsor for the better part of a year and said he had not seen a similar day. As we were walking almost by ourselves on the nearly three-mile route, what should suddenly appear from the west but grandly groomed horses pulling fine, brilliantly polished, shining carriages accompanied by the red clad Queens Mounted Guard. It was Ascot time, of course. The queen had departed the official transportation ensemble earlier and was on her way back to the castle in her Rolls. But the procession, sans Queen, rolled on up the Long Walk towards the gates of Windsor Castle.
Ripley Leaving Windsor Castle Towards King George Statue
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What about that! Two days in London and two parades. Today we visited Kew Gardens, a personal favorite, and exactly the experience I want on our last day in England. Tomorrow it's back home and to our very own loos which will look very good no matter whether they are luxury or not.
P.S. Just back from Kew Gardens and I could not miss reporting that I FINALLY got to unzip my pant legs and wear shorts. I, honest to god, did it right in the middle of the park. No one was looking, though. It was a glorious day!
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