Keep calm and carry on - keeping an Eye on London

Posted by Nora K ,
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Feet firmly rooted to the ground, my pink sneakers were certainly not going to budge, take a leap of faith and foolishly risk life and limb by clambering into the claustrophobic plastic/glass enclosed bubble that appeared to be precariously hanging from the bicycle-wheel-like spokes of UK’s famous “London Eye”.  Towering an impressive 443 feet above the South Thames River Bank, and weighing a colossal 1800 tons, this massive Ferris wheel is known as the Merlin Entertainments London Eye or simply as the Millennium Wheel.  Officially inaugurated on Dec 31st, 1999 to commemorate the millennium, the London Eye was not fully operational or made open to the public until March 2000.  Attracting around 2 million visitors each year, the Eye offers a “bird’s eye view” of Big Ben, Canary Wharf and London Tower Bridge, just to name a few of the landmarks which dot the London skyline, hence, most likely, it’s appropriately unique  name.




Dangling, spinning and orbiting round and round, the 32 egg-shaped capsules are roomy enough to hold a maximum of 25 people, all of whom had dished out around £20 for the opportunity of soaring like a bird in a glass, plastic and steel tube like structure.  Apparently neither deathly afraid of heights nor harbouring any fears of entrapment, these thrill-seeking adventurists (tourists, actually), queue for hours to be willingly suspended a jaw-dropping 138 metres above the ground in a rotating capsule.  Have they completely lost their marbles?  The mere thought of the remote possibility of plunging to an untimely demise, should, God forbid, a technical glitch or a tempestuous gust of wind snap a cable and thus disengage the dangling capsules from their spokes, is the determining factor which solidified my resolve to never step foot into said capsule.  Unable to extrapolate the image of my pink-sneakered self un-elegantly splattered on the cold dank pavement below, I cringed in horror and disbelief when the Kid abruptly announced that she’s going to “go for the gold” and capture that National Geographic moment in time and snap digital memories from her vantage point at the top of the Wheel.  Yikes!! 



Unable to convince her petrified ol’ Auntie to accompany her on the 30 minute “ride of a lifetime”, my fear-less niece couldn’t race fast enough to the queue and clamber into the confining glass dome and soar to dizzying heights of freedom and possibility.  I, on the other hand, was cocooned in my current state of self-preservation, hoping beyond hope that this wouldn’t be her “last ride of a lifetime”, one that could possibly culminate in a visually unpleasant image of blood, guts, glass and steel, mashed and smashed body parts strewn about the concrete below. Like, seriously??  Do I ALWAYS have to be so “over the top” dramatic??


Needing to “keep calm and carry on”, I therefore bravely embraced this well-known British phrase - thus, making it my mantra of the day - and proceeded to calm my splintered nerves by indulging in one or two pints of Guinness, as I languished the afternoon away in one of the outdoor pubs that lined the Thames – eagerly anticipating the return of the pink-sneakered Kid, babbling excitedly about her sky-high adventures of the day.

Come spin around the banks of the river Thames with the Kid and I, as we eye the London Eye and orbit round and round the skyline of merry old London.
Next week – where do my pink-sneakered footprints end up??  Stay tuned!!

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Not invited to tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace

Posted by Nora K ,
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Suitcases filled to the brim, expertly packed and crammed full of knick-knacks, trinkets, memorabilia and 75% off designer ware, shopping “till we dropped” had been successfully knocked off of our agenda.  The Kid and I were therefore free to devote the remainder of our London stay to fully immersing ourselves in British culture and customs.  At the top of our list was a scheduled visit to the stomping grounds of her Majesty herself, where we planned to traipse around her palatial residence at Buckingham Palace in the hope of perhaps being fortunate enough to be invited to afternoon tea and crumpets.  After all, Canada does have close ties with Britain, being a Commonwealth nation and all, so surely the Queen would have no problem playing hostess to two awe-struck Brit obsessed Canadians.


The Kid was anxious to compare the grandeur of the Queen’s London estate to her beloved French heroine, Marie-Antoinette’s regal headquarters in Versailles, and ascertain which royal’s palatial abode outshone and outranked the other.  Having become madly obsessed with the splendour and opulence of Le Petit Trianon, my niece was constantly plotting and planning how to set up camp and re-locate to this fabulous French address.


Strolling along spacious tree-lined Birdcage Walk, blue and red Union Jack flags flapping ceremoniously in the wind, the crowds grew larger and denser with each step, as we headed towards Buckingham Gate.  The sheer magnificence of the Queen’s London Palace was made apparent to us the closer we tread, the 108 metre long structure regally situated upon 40 acres of royal grounds.  Boasting an impressive 775 rooms, 78 bathrooms, 92 offices and 52 bedrooms (not including the 188 staff bedrooms), her Majesty’s residence also houses a swimming pool, an art gallery and a post office!  And that’s just on the inside! The immense grounds include a lake, a tennis court and a private helicopter landing area, should any member of the royal family desire to be whisked by chopper to yet another “oh so mundane” social engagement.  The palace is open to visitors only during the months of August and part of September, when the Queen is away on her annual holiday.



With Prince William married off to Kate Middleton, that left eligible bachelor Prince Harry on the market, offering a glimmer of hope to my 16 year old starry-eyed niece, who envisioned herself one day betrothed to the dashing royal, thus securing her long for coveted royal address.  Continually plotting, planning and day-dreaming of far away adventures in even further away lands, the Kid was incessant that one day her prince will come, and magically transport her to her fantasy world of castles, ladies in waiting and horse-drawn carriages.

Staring wistfully at the balcony where newly married Kate and William shared a romantic kiss, the Kid was rooted to her spot, refusing to move from her perch as she peered through the ornate wrought iron gates that enveloped Buckingham Palace.

Short of having to forcibly pry my niece away from the gate, as frankly, she was beginning to become a bit of an eye-sore to the hundreds of other gawking tourists, a slightly annoying teenager who kept calling out Prince Harry’s name over and over again ad nauseam - I instead meandered away and spent a peaceful afternoon strolling along the perimeter of the palace.

Needless to say, I strongly suspect that Buckingham Palace stole the heart of the starry-eyed impressionable Kid that London day.

Come traipse around the outside of Buckingham Palace with the Kid and I, as we battle the crowds for a birds-eye view of the inhabitants inside, in the hopes of perhaps scoring an invite for afternoon tea or catching the eye of a certain eligible prince…

Next week – Where in London do my pink-sneakered footprints end up next? Stay tuned!!

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The incredulous chair-snatching caper on Carnaby Street

Posted by Nora K ,
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You know that you’re traipsing around the globe with a junior shopaholic version of yourself, when the Kid looks you squarely in the eye, and declares that sightseeing for the day has been officially scrapped, as the next 24 hours will be devoted entirely towards the acquisition of 50% off  priced European bargains – or, as much as can possibly be carted across the pond without raising the suspicions of Canadian Customs agents for grossly exceeding one’s permitted yearly allotment of declared goods – all without getting thrown in the slammer for importing what appears to be an excessive amount of Kate Middleton inspired designer frocks and handbags. Like, seriously? 

 What happened to my former French Revolutionary affection ado and “Marie-Antoinette wanna-be” obsessed niece?  You know – the one who had to be forcibly removed from the Palace of Versailles because she tried to set up camp in one of the opulent and majestically ornate state rooms?  You know – the one who literally dragged her dear ol’ Auntie to all 250+ museums and exhibitions within every last square inch of the parameter of Paris?  You know – the one who had our complete London itinerary mapped out on an Excel spreadsheet, with not a minute to spare, lest we should, “God forbid”, deviate from the meticulously detailed schedule and wander off the beaten path?

Meandering along artsy and funky Carnaby Street would therefore be quite the nostalgic journey indeed, as we jumped back in time to a groovy, happy, hippy 1960’s swinging London, where miniskirts, Twiggy, Mary Quant and the Rolling Stones dominated the social scene.  The Kid’s dad was of British descent and she had grown up hearing endless tales of cool music bands and even cooler London folk just hanging out on this three block long narrow street, a stone’s throw from Regent and Oxford.  Anxious to experience the feel and ambiance of her daddy’s youthful stomping grounds, my niece was determined to walk in his footsteps and re-create treasured moments in time and immerse herself in a fragment of her roots and heritage.

 

Hence my 7:00am wake-up call commanding me to wake up, get dressed and skedaddle as quickly as my pink-sneakered feet were able to, as the Kid was on a mission to shop till she dropped and then some.  Out the door by 8:00am, we had quite a hike ahead of us, as the journey would involve numerous stops along the way, the allure of “final clearance markdown” bargains too enticing to pass on by.


 
It therefore came as no surprise that we ended up within the vicinity of Carnaby Street around lunchtime, tuckered out and famished, anxious to put our feet up and partake of some serious people-watching whilst languishing in a quaint outdoor café.  Spotting what appeared to be a cool British pub that was already crammed full of patrons indulging in Guinness, cigarettes and laid-back “attitude”, the Kid and I gleefully raced towards “Shakespeare’s Head” in search of vacant seating.  What happened next is akin to a scene out of a comedy film, as just as I was reaching for an adjacent chair, it was instantaneously snatched from under me by a scrawny chain smoking wisp of a granny, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, stealthily scooting away and depositing her new-found chair on the other side of the patio.  Like, hello? What just happened here? One minute, I was about to sit down on a chair and the next minute it is literally grabbed from under my pink-sneakered bottom, leaving me both speechless and seconds away from un-elegantly planting my hinny on the cool, dank pavement. 



 
Surprised, shocked and stupefied at the sheer audacity of someone so brazen as to shamelessly steal a chair from literally under one’s feet, the Kid and I didn’t have the gumption to chase after “Grandma chair snatcher”, mercilessly bowl her down and reclaim our pub chair - even though we had every right to do so, and would have been victoriously cheered on by a small army of equally aghast pub patrons, who had also been witness to this unbelievably gutsy chaise snatch episode.

Seat-less, chair-less and lunch-less, the Kid and I had no choice but to now search for another pub.  Refusing to allow this bold act of nervy impudence dampen our spirits, we laughed it off, chalking it up as a once in a lifetime (let’s hope!!) experience that added an unexpected element of incredulity to our globe-trotting escapades, a memory that won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

 
And so it was that we stumbled upon a little bit of Parisian culture a few doors away from the English pub that we did not get to eat in, instead discovering the gastronomic delights of  “C’est Ici Brasserie”, where we were privileged to sample some of the best frites and burgers in London.


 
Some things are just meant to be and so perhaps on one of my future visits to Carnaby Street, I’ll be older, wiser and on the lookout for a sneaky grey-haired chain-smoking wisp of a granny,  lurking around the corner of the pub, waiting for her next unsuspecting prey.

Come traipse around Carnaby Street and discover avant-garde cool music, French bistros, and the Doc Martens store – all the while trying to outsmart the sneaky chaise snatchers, who are waiting in the wings, anxious to pull that rug (or, as in my case, chair) out from under your pink-sneakered feet.

Next week – Where do my pink sneakers take me? Buckingham Palace?  The Tower of London?  The London Eye?  Paddle-boat racing in Hyde Park? 

Stay tuned for more adventures with the Kid and Auntie Nora as we tour the fabulous city of London.

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Endless buses and the journey back to London - the saga continues

Posted by Nora K ,
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Hell bent on acquiring a berry burgundy hued pair of Doc Martens, adamant that they must be acquired solely in London, or more specifically, within the vicinity of former 1960’s swinging Carnaby Street; the Kid was on a shopping mission like no other.  A mere 5 minutes after greeting her “dear ol’ tuckered out” middle-aged Auntie, who, incidentally, had endured countless roadblocks in her attempts to traverse all forms of over-ground transport en route to picking up her 16 year old Highness at the airport, was now obliged to escort “la Princesse” to her preferred shopping destination.  Now, as anyone knows, Miss Pink Sneakers can shop till she drops and then some, but the thought of having to race from the tarmac to the shops was asking for a bit much, especially since the journey from the airport would be no walk in the park, requiring stamina, patience and fortitude, having to forfeit valuable shopping hours, as we navigated through the congested rush-hour traffic via countless buses and coaches.  The Kid had no clue as to what was in store, as her long-anticipated Limo ride was just a delusional teen-aged fantasy gone wrong, most likely brought on by watching one too many episodes of “The Real Housewives of Somewhere Rich and Glamorous”.

Snivelling and whining whilst crammed into the back of the passenger coach, my niece pouted and sobbed, loudly declaring this to be her “worst holiday ever!”  Trapped amongst the other budget conscious back-packing globe-trotters, the Kid lamented her chauffer-less status, appalled at the indignity of not hobnobbing with the “crème de la crème” of jet-setting royalty.  I, on the other hand, was pleased as punch at having now saved bucket-loads of money by choosing to travel with National Coach Express for an economical £6 per person.


With the bus having deposited us at Victoria Coach Station, smack dab in the middle of London, believing the worst to be behind her, the Kid was unprepared to now have to schlep her luggage on yet another pedestrian coach (like, seriously?) - Bus #73 to Marble Arch, a mere hop, skip and a jump away from my London digs – in reality, more like a 15 minute sprint along Bayswater Road, if you race along at a really fast clip. 

 
Having now devoted an entire day sequestered on all forms of public transit, I was now more or less an unofficial expert on “How to get to Heathrow in 8 hours or less”, offering valuable tidbits of Info to a small minority of claustrophobic Tube avoiding transit passengers – while also providing a much-needed valuable public service.  Something to most definitely think about if ever contemplating quitting my day job and re-locating to the other side of the world across the pond.


 
With dinner time fast approaching, and the shops open until at least 8:00pm, the kind-hearted Auntie in me suggested that the Kid and I stroll along Oxford Street to get a bite to eat and amble along London’s hustling and bustling chaotic pedestrian thorough-fare.  Home to over 300 shops - from budget low-end Primark - to high-end designer ware department store emporium, Selfridges - this shopping mecca is the “go to” destination for locals and foreigners alike.  Approximately one and a half miles long, this insanely congested street offers a little bit of something for everyone.   Whether scrounging for tacky trinkets and souvenirs or merely indulging in people-watching, Oxford Street is not to be missed, encompassing the feel and essence of the British capital.




 
Not hearing a peep or sound from my niece since her mortifying yet humbling bus journey from the airport, I was secretly relieved to hear the Kid utter an exuberant squeal upon spotting trendy “Topshop”, a British based retailer offering designer inspired fashion at bargain basement prices.  Abandoning me at the curb, Miss Fashionista darted across the street and disappeared into the shop, emerging about an hour later.  Loaded down with carrier bags, the Kid was in her glory, screeching in delight as she proceeded to race towards chic, cheap and cheerful Primark, where she was not seen again until Security politely escorted her out upon the shop’s closing hours.  Declaring this to be her “best holiday ever!” the Kid was all smiles, her traumatizing bus journey long forgotten.  Go figure??

 
Pink Sneaker Helpful Tidbits of Info on navigating London streets via public transit

With London being quite the expensive city, one doesn’t have to break the bank to travel around the city via taxi cab or chauffeur driven Limo, with public transit so accessible and affordable. Except, of course, if you’re a claustrophobic like me, who will avoid the underground Tube at all costs, scooting around town is a slightly more challenging task, but an entirely do-able one, nonetheless.

One can save truckloads of money by opting to hop on a National Express coach to Heathrow from Victoria Coach Station for an economical price of £6.  The bus ride is an approximate 40 minutes or so, depending upon traffic.  Give yourself plenty of time and elect to take an earlier bus, thus avoiding the headache of a possible traffic jam.  Buses leave every half hour.

If you’re brave enough, I understand that commuting via the Underground is also a speedy and efficient way in which to get around London - but don’t quote me on that, as my pink-sneakered feet instead chose to walk, and thus avoided going anywhere near the Tube.

If in London for a couple of days, I suggest purchasing an Oyster Card, a plastic Smart Card that you top up on a “pay as you go” basis. Valid on all forms of public transit, this electronic pass is a cheap and economical method of paying for your fare.  I actually never got one because I chose to walk absolutely everywhere.

If in a pinch, hop in one of London’s well-known Black Cabs, which are surprisingly affordable, - one cabby told me that all of the cab drivers are required to pass a rigorous test in which they have to memorize more than 25,000 central London streets, a learning process that takes several years to complete.

Come hang out in London and traverse all forms of transit as we strive to navigate the city cheaply and economically – while also indulging in a bit of people-watching and shopping on bustling Oxford Street. 

Next week – Off to Carnaby Street in search of burgundy Doc Martens – the adventure continues!!

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Picking the Kid up at Heathrow - a day long marathon of endless buses

Posted by Nora K ,
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Having spent the past couple of days traipsing about London, scouring the clearance racks for 50% off Kate Middleton inspired designer frocks and indulging in one too many pints of Guinness, it was now time to put on my responsible hat, kick into “mean ol’ Auntie” gear and pick up the kid at Heathrow.  The former French revolutionary 12 year old had blossomed overnight into a “wise beyond her years” 16 year old fashionista, eager to take on the world and follow in her Auntie’s pink-sneakered footprints and discover far-away lands in even further away places.  Fortunate to have the privilege of spending two weeks soaking up Greek and Italian culture whilst on a school excursion, my niece had decided to prolong her travel adventure and accompany me on my European journey.  Hoping to re-live the “good old days” with her uber cool, if somewhat strict middle-aged Auntie, the kid envisioned a care-free holiday, her every whim catered to, wishes granted by a magical fairy dust princess, or, in my case, “money is no object” rich Auntie (who, moi??).  Residing in a “made for TV” saccharine fairy-tale version of reality, my sister’s youngest child was in for a harsh wake up call, appalled at having to traipse through Europe with her frugal and economical Auntie, who subsided on a pauper’s budget on her sojourns around the globe.

 Travelling with cheapo shopaholic me would prove to be an exercise in patience, exhaustion and frustration, as we un-graciously hauled our over-burdened luggage on buses and trains, all the while enduring the hostile glares of our fellow passengers, as we trudged and schlepped our way through Europe.  What?  No servants?  No limos?  No five star accommodation?  And, to further add insult to injury, we had to forgo cabs and either walk or take the over-crowded pedestrian bus.  Yikes!!  This is a holiday? What had the kid gotten herself into?


It all started to go downhill the morning that I left my B & B in order to make my way to the airport in anticipation of my niece’s arrival in London.  Flying solo from Athens, the kid was in her glory, pretending to be a jet-setting socialite, who was accustomed to boarding planes at a moment’s notice.  My sister had threatened to disown me as a relative if I was so much as one second late in picking up her daughter at Heathrow, hence my 6:00am wake-up call from Canada, commanding me to get up, get dressed and high-tail it to Heathrow lickety-split.  Like seriously? The kid’s flight only lands at 3:45pm, leaving me plenty of time in which to get a coffee, meander along the shops, partake of a leisurely lunch, take a nap and make it to the airport in time. You would think that a generous 9 hours would suffice.  Well, think again, as I never anticipated the issues that I would encounter along the way.

Having already navigated the hallways and corridors of Terminal 3, upon my arrival a couple of days ago, I was smug in my expertise of getting out of the airport cheaply, quickly and economically by choosing to travel on the National Express Coach bus for a very reasonable cost of £6. 

Hoping to save a bit of time and also catch up on some sightseeing, I hopped on the “Hop on Hop off” bus that was so conveniently located just down the street from my London digs.  Since I had already purchased my £30, “valid for 24 hours” voucher the previous day, I was quite familiar with the route the bus would take, having spent the day looping around London on the “Big Bus Tour.”  Smarty pants me was planning to hop off the tour bus not far from Victoria Coach Station, board the Airport Express bus to Heathrow and arrive at the airport in time for a leisurely lunch, allowing me plenty of time to read magazines while I waited for the kid.  Great plan in theory, not so much in reality, though.

Weaving its way along the ever so crowded streets, the “Big Bus Tour” crawled at a snail’s pace, barely inching along the congested traffic jammed laneways.  On the tour bus for most of the morning, stranded out by the London Eye, I was now a bazillion miles away from Victoria Coach Station, no longer a convenient short walk but a marathon inspired sprint away.  Yikes!!  It was now approaching noon and my plan to be leisurely settled in the airport Lounge, enjoying a vino with my lunch, was replaced instead with sheer panic, as I now had 3 hours in which to race to the tarmac and greet the kid.  Visions of having to endure the wrath of my sister cursing me for the remainder of my life sent shivers of fear down my spine, as I envisioned the kid wailing unceremoniously upon learning her fate of being stranded at the airport, having to sleep on cheap plastic chairs and scrounge for left-over food scraps for the duration of her first grown-up idyllic European holiday.


So what’s a gal to do but grudgingly hop into a cab to race her to the bus depot.  Like, seriously -  I tried walking for about 10 minutes or so but gave up when I realized it would take me at least 3 hours to get to the bus station, so for a mere £20 (Yikes!!), I was deposited at Victoria Coach station within 25 minutes.  Okay. Breathe. Relax. I’m half-way to the airport already. Whoa. Hold your horses. Not so quick there. You sure about that?

Clambering off the bus 45 minutes later at Terminal 3, I now had less than 2 hours to get to Terminal 5, a mere hop, skip and jump away – or, so I thought.  Yikes!!  Little did I realize that Heathrow is a sprawling “metropolis” in itself, encompassing 5 Terminals spread out over several acres, all within easy access via the underground or Tube.  Now - normally, this would not pose any sort of problem for most people, but with severely claustrophobic me - who goes to great lengths to avoid the entrapment of elevators and subways - this is an entire other set of issues, requiring years of therapy and endless gallons of vino to be able to possibly overcome.  The Tube could efficiently scoot me to my destination within a couple of minutes and would be the wisest and most practical choice - but would effectively result in the entire city of London witnessing a middle-aged pink-sneakered woman having an undignified meltdown, un-elegantly gasping for air, screeching in the black lightless tunnels, panicking that the train is about to breakdown - resulting in her being trapped until the end of time in a dark confining tube for the remainder of her life.  Not a pretty sight, if you know what I mean.

All righty then, what next?  How to get to Terminal 5?  Dashing, sprinting and racing from hallway to corridor to information desk, I was adamant that there was no way in hell that I was going to get to Terminal 5 via the underground, determined that there was an alternate route in which to navigate from terminal to terminal. Seriously contemplating exiting the building, whether having to resort to racing along the tarmac and dodge incoming airplanes along the way, my pink sneakers were up to the task. Visions of a pink-clad delusional Canadian foreigner unintentionally making front page news headlines – unceremoniously arrested for sprinting along the runway of a major International airport – were not the memories I wished to take home from my European adventure.  Quite certain that my sister wouldn’t even post bail, still mad that the kid had been abandoned at the arrivals Lounge; I was in quite a conundrum indeed.

With less than an hour left to meet and greet my niece, desperate measures called for extreme action and thus I was left with no choice but to beg and plead with the nice folk at the National Express Bus Coach counter whether or not there was any possible way the bus would be able to give me a ride to Terminal 5.  Let me tell you, in no uncertain terms, that crying and appearing hysterical will get you the desired results nine times out of ten. Without even having to dish out any extra money for additional fare, my old bus ticket still valid, I was graciously escorted to Terminal 5, with a couple of extra minutes to spare!!  Now that’s good old-fashioned British hospitality!!

Come traipse all over London on a day-long hike involving buses, taxis and even more buses (but no underground!!) as I scramble to get to the sprawling hub of International travel in 9 hours or less – encountering traffic jams, that pesky claustrophobic Tube and genuinely swell people along the way…

Next week – Where do my pink sneakers take me?? Stay tuned!!
 

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Musical deck chairs - observations on pigeon feeding and chaise lounging in London parks

Posted by Nora K ,
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Cavorting through the lush playgrounds of London’s Royal Parks required an abundance of energy and stamina that often wore out, after endless hours spent traipsing about the grass, frolicking with the dogs and foolhardily attempting to keep up with the joggers.  All tuckered out, in desperate need of a nap and a siesta, anxious to “put my feet up” and take a load off of my weary pink-sneakered tootsies, I happened to spy several inviting deck chairs, conveniently scattered along the perimeters of the park.  Beckoning one to “come on over”, sit down and blissfully lounge the hours away in a cocoon of luxurious contentment, the striped recliners were a welcoming oasis of tranquility for my sore and blistered feet (yup, again!!).  Hobbling over to one of the lone outdoor lawn chairs, I was immensely grateful to have stumbled across such a wondrous find.  My curiosity was further piqued upon viewing that the majority of these stupendous recliners sat forlorn and empty, devoid of human companions, with most people preferring to park themselves beside the chairs, on the not so comfortable prickly grass.  Momentarily bewildered as to why they would choose to forgo the comfi-ness of a readily available cushy seat, I gave it nary a thought and eagerly plunked myself down on said deck chair.


Happily munching on a hot dog while absent-mindedly throwing left over scraps to the grossly over-fed squawking pigeons, I happened to notice a park employee marching directly towards me.  Berating myself for not having noticed the “do not feed the pigeons” sign, I was seriously contemplating playing the “clued-out tourist” role, ready to plead ignorance of failing to abide by London’s official park rules.  Carrying what seemed to be a mini metered oblong gadget, the park official approached me and asked whether or not I had a “ticket” in my possession.  Pardon me?  A ticket?  For what?  Feeding the pigeons?  Wow!  The Brits certainly are super strict about enforcing those pigeon feeding regulations! Yikes!!

Babbling incoherently that I had just arrived from Canada and was not yet familiar with the customs and traditions of just hanging out in the park, I frantically strove to clear the “crime scene”, mercilessly scrapping with the now belligerent pigeons for any remaining and damming crumbs of evidence.  I was therefore startled to learn that providing sustenance for the birds was not a punishable offense, but sitting on park deck chairs was subject to payment of £1.50 per hour. Like, seriously? Are you kidding me?

Relieved that I wouldn’t be hauled before the court magistrates on the charges of endangering the well-being of future generations of winged species by gorging their over-stuffed bellies on a diet of processed meat and bread, I eagerly dug out a couple of coins, thereby guaranteeing myself a worry free full hour of “reserved” seating on prime real estate park grounds.

And then it dawned on me, as if a light bulb sparked a luminescent jolt of long-forgotten wisdom, as I slowly clued into the reality that hardly anyone was willing to fork over a couple of pence for the luxury of lounging on her majesty’s royal park recliners – hence, I suspect, the reason why the fabulous lawn chairs remained largely unoccupied.

Reserved ticket in hand, secure in staking claim to an engrossing 60 minutes of people watching from my comfy deck lounger, I was thoroughly entertained as I witnessed the antics of unsuspecting park patrons scramble and skedaddle from their striped lawn chairs, upon being confronted by Mr Official Deck Chair Enforcer, as he asked them to cough up a couple of coins for the privilege of lounging on the park recliners.  Making the rounds from deck chair to deck chair, Mr Chair Enforcer was diligent in collecting all that was due to the royal park coffers, encountering a melange of reactions along the way.  From the backpacking lovey- dovey couple who were appalled at being evicted from their cuddle nest - to the undignified cursing of seemingly normal parents of two adorable toddlers who perceived themselves to be unjustly uprooted from their chaises– to sincerely apologetic joggers who happily paid the chair rental fee, grateful to put their feet up and rest for the next couple of hours – I was delightfully amused by the incredible lengths some people would stoop to in order to avoid having to pay the park’s extremely economical chaise rental fee.  Needless to say, my one hour turned into two hours, which then extended into the remainder of the afternoon, so mesmerized was I by the comical escapades of certain extremely stingy cheapskates, seeking to save a couple of pounds by high-tailing to the hills upon glimpsing sight of Mr Deck Chair Enforcer.

Come hang out in the park and lounge on your choice of denizens of striped comfy recliners as you over-feed the pigeons and laugh hysterically at the entertaining antics of the walkers, joggers and chaise loungers – just another day in the park spent communing with nature and the birds and the bees.

Next week – where do my pink-sneakered feet end up?? Stay tuned!!

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