Sorry it’s been a while, but we’ve had a serious-ass change of venue, and just in the nick of time. We struggled mightily with the embarrasment of telling the hostess at our B&B in Kew Gardens that we wanted to switch to a hotel in London for the balance of our stay–I know, I know, struggled why, exactly? It’s not like we’d give even a picosecond of thought to telling the reception desk at a Best Western that we wanted to move to another establishment. But for some reason, letting a sweet, dowdy, 70-year-old matron know that we’re leaving her one-room guest house for greener (and let’s be frank, quieter pastures; staying at this place was like sleeping at the airport. On the runway. Or possibly housed in the actual intake of a Rolls Royce RB211-524 Jet Engine) seemed horribly rude and possibly unethical. We’d gone so far as to construct an elaborate cock-and-bull story about how we were planning to stay in Paris for the entire balance of our vacation so as to avoid having to tell her the truth. This scheme became more and more complicated as we attempted to plan for every contingency of explanation; where we were staying, when we were leaving, why we were taking both our suitcases when we had just come back from a stay in Jersey and Inverness where we had only taken one….just totally, totally overthinking it. Finally I decided to just tell our host the truth. Turned out that she didn’t care one whit about why we were leaving, just that it opened up a space for someone who wanted to stay there starting the day we left. All that agonizing for nothing, save the satisfaction that comes from a masochist’s job well done. 🙄

Anywho, as of Monday we are ensconced at the ridiculously posh Radisson Edwardian Vanderbilt on lively Cromwell Road, close to museums, restaurants, cafes and Tube stations, resplendant with complimentary WiFi and central air conditioning, and a safe distance from any large airplanes. Lord oh Lord, do we love this hotel room.

Of course, we’ve left out a significant portion of our trip, namely our journey to Inverness. I’m going to leave that story to Margaret. Firstly because she does such a marvelous and thorough job of detailing these things (I’m a bit jealous, truth be told), and secondly because, in all honesty, I don’t remember much of it. “But Andrew”, I hear you saying, “why do you not remember such an exciting adventure, so recently concluded? What so ever could be the problem?” Simple, my friends. I cannot remember a lot of our trip to Scotland because 57 pence of every pound spent in Inverness is spent at Tesco. Allow me to elaborate. See, we took a day-long tour of the Highlands led by a loveable high-function psychotic named Graeme. As we passed a Tesco supermarket on our outward journey, he mentioned that “57 pence of every pound spent in Inverness is spent in Tesco. Now, they tell us in tour guide school that most folks only retain information if it’s given to them three times. So, 57 pence of every pound spent in Inverness is spent in Tesco. And, just in case ya missed it the frist two times, let me just add that, 57 pence of every pound spent in Inverness is spent in Tesco.” So that’s all I fucking remember about our trip to Scotland. That, and the fact that the woods there are eerily, blatantly, freakishly green. Not a forest green or a jungle green, but a lambent and penetrating ultra-jade that presses on your mind like a heavy blanket, yet buoys your spirit. Remember the movie Excalibur? Remember how the forests in that film seemed to pulse with the green? Remember thinking that this had to be some sort of lighting technique? It wasn’t; they just dragged a camera out into the woods and the forest did the rest. Whilst tromping through the forest of Scotland I was totally, utterly convinced that the Green Man was going to step out from behind a larch and ask me what the fook I was douin’ trampin’ aboout in hes woouds. The sense of power is unmistakable, and something I don’t typically get in Northwest woods, possibly because I have no genetic tie to them. Hawaiian tropical rainforest has a bit of it, but I always get the feeling it’s sort of resigned to see me there and would just as soon ignore me.

Anyway….back to Britain. After we got settled in at our new digs, we set out for Harrods, or as I like to call it, Her Majesty’s Strategic Merchandise Reserve. Juh-HEEbus. Seven floors of consumer goods; clothing, electronics, books, toys, pets and pet supplies, cosmetics, housewares, restaurants (I had some sushi because I had to say that I’d had sushi at Harrods. Meh, not bad, but being from both Hawaii and the Northwest I’m spoiled) and fresh and packaged foodstuffs. After three or so floors my dendrites were fraying like a ship’s rigging driven in a killing storm for too long. My neurons were bright and feverish, my eyeballs were grainy in their sockets, and my feet were killing me. Plus, they wanted nearly seventy five bucks for a frigging Crumpler laptop bag, can you believe that? We buggered out shortly after discovering the (shudder) Krispy Kreme.

Yesterday we took the Tube/Train/Bus trifecta to Stonehenge, along with approximately six grillion other tourists.

It was a beautiful day, and the site itself is majestic and awe-inspiring, but it was also one of the single most touristy things we’ve done since getting here. I felt a little dopey walking a big circle around an ancient monument and taking close to a hundred photographs so I would be able to get that one perfect shot of it….then I looked around me and saw two or three hundred people doing the exact same thing. If any of the interstellar visitors who bulit this thing were watching from space, I imagine we all looked like the flagella on a giant stone paramecium or something.

Today we went out to pick up an extra suitcase in which to schlep our newly-accumulated crap home. We took the long route around to find a nice cafe at which to have breakfast, and in doing so happened across a private school for young girsl, maybe seven and eight-year-olds, from the look of it. They were gamboling around in the school’s fenced courtyard as we passed, decked out in identical lilac-colored dresses, gigling and squealing something fierce, and I noted to Margaret that they made the place look like a private school for Peeps.

After brekky we visited the British Museum of Natural History, which is conveniently located next door to our hotel. The place is very well put together, with at least two centuries’ worth of collected samples and displays. We were only able to complete one floor out of three because we had to get ready for dinner. (And, to be honest, to cool off. Right now the temp is hovering around eighty, with high humidity. We both were in need of some of that good stuff, central AC, courtesy of the good folks at Radisson. This just in: we’re pussies.) We’re catching a cab to St. John, a famous “traditional English cuisine” restaurant that specializes in snout-to-tail cooking. We first heard about it in a piece by David Sedaris, then got to see their wares on Anthony Bourdain’s show No Reservations. Been dying to go there ever since. Not sure if I’m emotionally prepared to order the Warm Pig’s Head With Butter Beans, but we’ll be sure to let y’all know how it turns out. 😉