One Down, Two To Go

Ok, I've done the culture thing.

I know a great deal more about Tamara De Lempicka, and highly recommend her exhibition at the Royal Academy. Investing £3 in the audio guide would be a good idea too. Not least because I'm convinced that one of the actors from The Archers is providing the voice. And also because it gives you an excuse to walk into people.

I also took the opportunity that a few spare hours afforded to be a tourist. I had a nose around a small church that I'd seen years ago - I like interesting buildings. While I read the inscriptions on the wall, a small and crackly voice behind me said "Don't forget to look up"

I jumped, turned, and was faced with an elderly lady. She, with a single skeletal finger pointed, ceilingwards. I followed her finger and gasped at the magnificent sculpture and paintings on the roof.

The old lady, replete with the halitosis that nature seems to reserve for the elderly, then gave me a guided tour of the church. I offered a donation, she said "Oh, don't be silly. I'm just the cleaner, love."

What is it about me and aged female cleaners?




Lunch was taken at my all time favourite London eatery. I love the Wong Kei on Wardour Street. Where else can you get a huge plate of rice, mystery meat and a beer for around a fiver? And you've got to love places that are cash only.

I've been going there since I was an English student in London, and used to grab some cheap grub before queuing for stand by tickets. The staff are sadly not as magnificently rude as they used to be, but you still get sat WHERE THE F**K YOU'RE TOLD and the sensation of playing Russian Roulette with food poisoning is thankfully ever-present. I live life dangerously.

Indeed, the Wong Kei may have been instrumental in my eventual divorce. The Ex and I spent a few nights in England between marriage and honeymoon (posh Hotel on a Greek island.) So we saw some shows - I love theatre. And we ate at the Wong Kei. And the following day, the day we were supposed to be flying out, I got sick. Really, spectacularly sick. At the airport. After check-in.

I had to endure the indignity of the airport emergency doctor while The Ex retrieved the luggage (which was already on the plane.)

The Ex has dined out on that story for the last 11 years. Every new person gets "Hello, I'm and this is my husband. You'll never guess what he did at the airport before we were due to fly out for our honeymoon." I kept the 'Not Fit To Fly' certificate though.

(we did have a honeymoon in the end - 5* hotels in Paris and Venice)

Ok. Thats the culture. Now I'm going to be all materialistic on Oxford Street.