Breakfast: croissant 🥐 and tea in bed, which is where the day’s first Big Decision was made. “Why don’t we walk to Marble Arch instead of taking the tube?” Reader, this was said by a person who had not yet met the day’s mileage. It was cool, dry, sunny, and only 4.7km. Only. The most dangerous word in travel.

Off we trot at 9am, across the bridge, past Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street, where devoted citizens queued for shops to open at 10, like pilgrims awaiting a sale on holy ground. Oxford Street was its usual calm, spacious self (it was not). We arrived at Marble Arch, parked ourselves in a coffee shop, and waited for my sister-in-law. Then came Frameless, my second visit in three months. Verdict: still worth it, even without the element of surprise. Art that survives repeat viewing is the only kind I trust. Same goes for sisters-in-law.

Then the Tube to Sky Garden, with a noble plan for a pre-lunch pint. London, however, had other ideas: not a single available pub. A city with 3,500 pubs and we couldn’t find one. So we went straight up to the 35th floor and drank with a view instead, which is the sort of problem I’m happy to have. Lunch at the Darwin Brasserie, window table, naturally (I had reserved it, thank you). Good food, took our time, very busy. A triumph.

Of course, a big lunch demands a digestive drink. That’s medicine. Across the river to the South Bank for Peaky Blinders. We got in! Success! No seats, and noise at a volume usually reserved for aircraft carriers. By order of the Shelby family, we left.

Onward through Borough Market to the Bunch of Grapes, a Young’s pub where I knew from experience a decent pint of Special awaited. And it did. Experience pays. Then we parted ways: my sister-in-law boarded a train home to her south-east coastal town, and we promised to reunite in Paris in the New Year. (Poland was apparently also discussed. Plans were made. Ask me again in January.)

We walked back to the hotel for a one-hour rest, which is just a nap that has been given a job title. Then to Waterloo and the tube to Charing Cross. Covent Garden station is dead to me: the gigantic lift queue and the 299 steps, a stair-based hostage situation my knees refuse to negotiate.

The plan was a drink at the Coal Hole on the Strand, but, like every other pub in London today, it was far too busy. Are the Londoners all in pubs? Is nobody working? Swift pivot to the terrace bar at the top of the Royal Opera House for an eye-wateringly expensive gin and tonic. Pricey, yes, but the view was lovely and the ice was probably imported.

Then the Duchess Theatre, 3 minutes away, with time to spare. The Play That Goes Wrong was very funny with excellent set design, which is the only time I’ll applaud things falling apart on purpose. 🎭

Nightcap at the Wellington around the corner (a Guinness, because I’m a creature of habit), then a stroll back to the hotel across the river.

Early to bed after 13.4km on foot. Tomorrow’s decision: absolutely no more “only 4.7km” walks. (Tomorrow we will absolutely do one.) 😴