Even the Forks are in Line

This week I found myself picking up bits from the carpet in fear that I’d dropped them. This place is so clean and tidy I wonder what the cleaners are going to do when they come. Diana even wipes down the glass shower door with a squeegee and dry cloth every time she uses it. To be fair, the water is hard here and water marks would be left if we didn’t dry it down. Yes.

On Sunday morning Rose, Ben and I met near the Tower Bridge and walked over it to the Maltby food market. It was a gorgeous sunny autumn day and the bridge was spectacular.

We also went past the Tower of London which had beautiful stonework (probably wouldn’t be thinking that incarcerated from the inside)

and down past St Katherine’s dock yards where all the fabulously wealthy of London park their boats and through to the market where we ate brunch. I had delicious aloo gobi on soft Indian bread, Ben a bacon, beef patty and egg waffle (yes, waffle) and Rose potato and ham in a white sauce dish. Ben said ‘Let’s all have something different so we can share’. I like Ben. Then we split up, Ben went to his mate’s place to watch the rugby and Rose and I walked on to Spitalfields market and Brick Lane, the vintage spot in London. She took us the wrong way and we ended up in a very Muslim enclave, the men wearing little crocheted hats (kufi) and the women headscarves (hijab). ‘Pakistani’s’ Diana said later. We finally made our way to Brick Lane. The crowds! Suppose that’s part of what I came for. We were there for long enough to need more food and I ate the best corned beef and pickle bagel I’ve ever had. Couldn’t buy any clothes because (besides not needing anything) I hadn’t got my bank account sorted and felt a bit panicked about money, but I’ve done it now (phew, should wake in the morning to British pounds in my bank account). We had a really lovely time together looking at clothes and just walking around.

It was a long ride home as my train was changed under my very feet. One minute it’s going via Purley, next it’s going to West Croydon. I left the train for a long wait in another with a young Italian girl (wanting the same stop as me) who was carrying a dish of food. She was taking it to a friend’s house. ‘Are they not well?’ I asked and she said no, that she just liked cooking and wanted to share some food. She said I must go to Rome.