Vowed not to buy books but then went to Charing Cross Road and bought A Winter in Nepal by John Morris and Roald Dahl's Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life. Trudged through Soho and bought this lovely dress Made in England:
This afternoon accepted a very kind invitation to afternoon tea at The Royal Automobile Club, the grandeur of which it will take me some months of reflection to begin to elucidate. The tea began with champagne, English strawberries and cream, and then the tea, and tiers of sandwiches: cress and egg, salmon, beef and watercress and mustard, cucumber, then scones with jam and clotted cream, and then the gingerbread and fresh fruit and custard flan and eclairs and meringues and fruit cake...
Vowed not to eat again for five days but within five hours went for vegetarian thali at an Indian cafe on the embankment, where the waiter implored us to go to Jaipur. He said we would see real life there, and sunrises and sunsets that would change our lives, and while we were at it we would have hash the proper way, not recreational, and he would see us there. He asked us how cold Montreal winters get and when we told him, he repeated a phrase over and over again that I was not sure I heard right.
"Did he say Fucking hell Fucking hell Fucking hell?" I asked Esther.
As we passed the carousel and the misty moon and the houses of parliament with their glittering midnight windows, a crazy-beautiful wailing song about god floated from a woman who'd set up her keyboard on the south bank, and we hung around until we couldn't stand it anymore, and we came back up to our room and Esther made me a bedtime cup of peppermint tea.
On June 8th, 2011 02:05 am (UTC), (Anonymous) commented:
That dress is not just Made in England. It's a perfect Kathleen dress!
I think you had the epitome of teas at the Automobile Club--excuse me, Royal Automobile Club. (Were there any cars on show?)
When the waiter asked about winters in Montreal, did he know you were a Winter?