A tale of two Wests (and one sore foot)

Slept until 5am, which at my age is basically a medical miracle. Apparently walking half the Thames Valley will do that to a man.

Today’s plan: a cloth shop on King’s Road, a Chinese lunch, and some “something cultural” in between. Also, London’s last 6pm sunset of the year happened last night. I didn’t see it, but I’m told it was lovely and also a threat.

Then came the Mistake of the Month. I set out for West Ham. I arrived, with great confidence, at West Hampstead. These are not the same place. They are not even the same direction. We rode almost to the end of the line before the penny dropped, which in London is roughly Zone 6 of regret. Then we turned around, like two pensioners who’d taken the wrong coach to Margate.

Eventually we reached Sloane Square, home of the other half, the half that parks two Ferraris outside a shop as casually as I park a shopping trolley.

Prices around here have a certain “if you have to ask” quality.

Found the cloth. Admired the cloth. Did not buy the cloth, for two excellent reasons: (1) no room in my hand luggage, and (2) the price was the same as in France, only in pounds instead of euros, which is not a bargain, it’s a magic trick. I’ll buy it online and save 15%, and enjoy the smug glow of a man who outsmarted Sloane Square from his sofa.

Next, a pre-lunch gin and tonic at the Porcupine near Leicester Square. Every time I’m in London I end up here. At this point I suspect it isn’t a pub but a gravitational field.

Then Chinatown and a reservation at Joy King Lau, where a large and excellent meal awaited.

Somewhere between the dumplings, I was teleported back to Shanghai. My handful of Chinese words came flooding back, and I must have pronounced them rather well, because the head waitress responded with a torrent of fluent Mandarin. I understood none of it. My strategy: friendly grunts and a warm smile. Diplomacy, it turns out, is 80% nodding.

Sadly, my left foot then declared independence for reasons unknown. Walking was off the agenda. We still limped to Piccadilly Circus for a little shopping (priorities), then rode the tube back to Southwark.

I’m now writing with my foot elevated and a strong painkiller doing its best. The treatment plan is clinical: a visit to the local pub, where pints of real ale will perform the healing, followed by a couple of large nightcaps “for good measure.”

Doctors may disagree. The pub, I’m confident, will not.

Tomorrow: home. Hopefully in the right direction.