But let me go back a bit and point out that we started out in San Francisco, then spent a night in Boston at the Taj Hotel:
|Jim is our ward; we're bringing him back to London|
for prosecution on various crimes.
It was a king size bed, but put The American in with us, and it got cozy.
We managed to make it work. And then we flew to London and came to the flat in Eccleston Square. You can guess where John went first:
A lot of books, but none of them are interesting:
|History and decorating, not a single one|
about violent criminals.
|I don't know what he's doing, and I don't|
particularly care so long as he stays put.
So here we are then.
(Why are you always asking why you have to be in the middle, John? I don't know what you're talking about. Go have another drink.)
Oh, yes, and her.
She went to the supermarket. She'd never gone to a British supermarket before. I leave you to imagine how that went.
We did go out for a bit this afternoon, the weather being so nice. Just started walking, ended up on Victoria Street:
Then went on to Westminster Abbey. She didn't bother going inside, just sat on the grass with the pigeons.
|Westminster Abbey, March 2012|
And of course there's the clock:
|Big Ben is actually the name of the bell inside.|
As if there aren't already a million plus pictures of it. As if no one has ever seen a big clock tower before.
(Yes, John, I do find it aggravating. Why do we need another picture of the goddamn clock? No, I don't want a drink.)
And then we rode on the London Eye, had ice cream, and—it being five o'clock by that time—we chose to avoid the tube and walk back to the flat.
Notice, however, she took no pictures of us. Jim stayed locked in the flat, and John and I stayed in her bag. She says it's because of the crowds and there being no good, safe place to stop for pictures, but—
(All right, John, fine. Pour me a drink if it will make you feel better.)
I've made her promise to take us out tomorrow if the weather is dry. She can't write forever, after all.