Friday morning, Robin and I got up, packed up, checked out, and had a taxi called for us. The taxi driver arrived a bit late, as his company sent him to the wrong hotel. He was in a foul mood, and was surly for the ride. It’s not like it put US out or anything. The driver barely helped us with out bags and didn’t talk through the ride. Worked for us, as we hadn’t any coffee yet.
We got to Manchester Airport and get ourselves checked in. We got some coffee and a bite to eat. And found our gate. For the first time for either of us, there was no desk at the gate. There wasn’t any seats either, which for two slightly(😂) overweight, slightly ambulatory people, was asking a lot.
The flight was running late. When we finally boarded, we had to walk on the tarmac and loaded onto the plane from the door in the tail. Again, a big ask for us old folk, but I managed better than our President did. We boarded and got to our seats.
An hour later we were back in London. The driver that had taken us to the airport, Ben, was waiting for us. The difference between Ben and the Surly Taxi Driver was light night and day. Ben was very conscientious and guided us through the airport to where he parked. He drove us back to the airport and was chatting with us about our trip, and helped us get our bags out at the hotel. Guess which driver got tipped?
We got back into our hotel room and crashed for a couple of hours. We decided to do a high tea at Kensington Palace. Having dragged Robin through Manchester to watch the bloody Red Devils, I was placing myself at her disposal for the rest of our time in London. So off to Kensington Palace we went!
We traveled on an honest-to-goodness double-decker bus and got off near the palace. There is a green area just west of Hyde Park, and we walked through that to get to the palace.
The Kensington Pavilion was next to the palace, and that’s where we went in. I instantly felt out of place. Everything was clean, everyone was well-behaved, prim and proper. These are traits I do not possess. But my Queen wanted a tea, so my Queen was getting a tea! I punched a hole in my Man Card, pulled up my Drill Sergeant panties and pulled the chair out for my Queen, and sat down to tea.
A high tea comes with a small pot of tea, of course. We both got Earl Grey. The tea tray came with three tiers. Tier 1 was four sandwiches. One was watercress, another was smoked salmon, another was coronation chicken, and the last one was egg and mayo. The smoked salmon sandwich had some caviar on the top.
Tier 2 was almond-orange scones with strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Robin explained to this unwashed grunt that clotted cream was like a super-creamy butter. I asked her why they didn’t just call it super creamy butter. Her look was a remembrance of the horrible spell from the day before, and I had enough rest to know the danger signs, so I let it be. Truth be told it was pretty good, no matter what you call it. Clotted cream is shorter than super creamy butter-like substance, so clotted cream it is. All I know is the scones were covered in powdered sugar, and I was wearing a dark blue sweater vest. Yes, a sweater vest. I was trying to clean up well for my Queen, OK? And I’m sure you can imagine what happened to a grunt wearing a dark sweater vest eating a hoighty-toighty dessert covered in powered sugar. That’s right. I looked like a man who woke up after a night with Hunter Biden and cocaine all over my sweater vest. Not that I would ever hang out with Hunter Biden. I don’t do prostitutes, or drugs.
The third tier was some decadent, super-fancy desserts. The first one I tried was a lemon custard covered with white chocolate. It had some gold filigree on it, as well as a white chocolate shirt sticking out of the top. But Steve, you might ask, why is there a shirt sticking out of the dessert? I might answer with any number of sarcastic retorts along the lines of, “I’m a former grunt in a swanky place next to a freaking royal palace in a large city in a foreign country. Why would I know why they’re putting freaking shirts in their freakingly good desserts?” The truth is, the palace was celebrating fashion in the palace suing a Crown to Couture theme, so the bloody British patisseries put freaking shirts in their freakingly good desserts. That’s why!
The second was raspberry mousse covered in a crumble mixture on a shortbread cookie. base. It had a candy crown on top of it. If you ask me why, I will refer you back to the paragraph above. We were right next door to a royal palace. THAT one made sense to me.
The third was the fanciest one of all. It was a hazelnut mousse covered in chocolate, resting on a chocolate cookie base. It was covered in gold filigree, and topped with a candy button. Two paragraphs up if you are as slow as me.
What I found surprising was, well, quite a few things actually, I got full. Four finger sandwiches, two scones and three small desserts. Plus I was able to engage in some scintillating conversation with my Queen. ALWAYS a plus. In case you don’t know, my wife is smarter than I am, is better looking than I am, and can carry her side of the conversation better than anyone I know. I tease her that I love listening to her “feckless meanderings”, but truth be told, I like the sound of her voice, and I usually learn something, in between my bouts of ADHD, which gets worse, the older I get.
Afterwards we went through the nearby garden that was dedicated to Princess Diana. It was early spring, so there were some flowers, but I’ll bet it’s really beautiful later in the spring. We then caught a bus back to the hotel to get ready for our night out. We had tickets to see The Play That Goes Wrong on the West End.
We took a cab to the Duchess Theater. And got in line. All of the posters and billboards telling us about the play were hilarious, so we anticipated a night of light-hearted entertainment. When we got inside, we were pleased to see that the theater was cozy, only allowing a hundred people or so. The play was hilarious. The Brits do have a penchant for comedy. The audience was laughing out loud through most of the play. It won a Tony on Broadway, and I could surely see why.
After the play, we crossed the street to a restaurant call Fishmongers, had some excellent seafood, then caught a cab back to the hotel. After a whirlwind week, we were looking forward to our first day of no flying.
And I was one day closer to being in Northern Wales.
Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy 