I took Eurostar to London on the Thursday evening before Christmas, and arrived in time to meet Tarquin La Folle and be dragged off to an end-of-term meal at historic London tavern Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, in Fleet Street. We sat at the very table where Dr Johnson once held court, under a brass plaque commemorating the great man's seat. The menu is very olde Englisshe, and I enjoyed a good old-fashioned steak and kidney pudding, served by ye olde traditional Estonian waitress.
On Friday I met Gorilla Bananas, who was a bit late. He panted his apologies as he unwound himself from several layers of scarves, woolly hats and gloves. "It's several degrees colder here than in the Congo," he explained with typical understatement. "And my fur is getting a bit thin in middle age." I bought him a hot chocolate to warm him up, poor old thing. Sadly the restaurant we had planned to have lunch in was FULLY BOOKED on a Friday lunchtime (so much for the recession!) so we repaired to a Pizza Express where we had some most acceptable Italian food served by a charming young Romanian waitress.
On Saturday I met the Grande Dame of the Thames Valley, Mrs Pouncer, who was looking resplendent in fake ocelot, fishnets and stiletto heeled thigh boots. She picked me up at the station and drove me on icy roads to one of those delightful country gastropubs they have down there. Unfortunately, once parked, she was unable to cross the car park which was like a skating rink without doing a Bambi. I suggested that I go in alone and have something sent out to her in the car, but she would have none of it, so I had to virtually carry her like an elderly and rather cantankerous relative to the safety of the pub's dining room. Once there, we had a delightful lunch, and the young Lithuanian waiter took the constant bottom-pinching with good humour.
I then proceeded to visit my cousin Vera Slapp in her bijou new des res in a chocolate-box Oxfordshire village with only one shop - Ye Olde Co-oppe - a post office that is so old the post box bears the letters GR (George Rex for the benefit of my colonial readers, meaning it pre-dates our current Queen), a beauty salon, a fireplace shop and three olde-worlde pubs, which gives you a fairly accurate picture of the type of people who live in the village. Rich and alcoholic. There is a particularly spectacular abbey, which even has a rotund and jolly lady vicar! It is not called Dibley, but might as well be. Vera's house is delightful, and this photograph of her fireplace decorated for Christmas would not be out of place on the cover of the Christmas edition of Country Life.
Vera is also something of a Delia, but I was cock-a-hoop to find she had never made her own sausage rolls! I gave her my secret tip: three layers of ready-made puff pastry rolled together make wonderfully light and puffy rolls. Don't forget the sausage meat. Vera and Cyril usually come to Brussels for the Christmas markets, but as I hadn't even made it to one myself this year, Vera rustled up some home-made vin chaud, or as it it now known even in Belgium thanks to Cyril's lack of French and poor hearing, banjo. Christmas just isn't Christmas without a sausage roll and a banjo. We had a delightful dinner at one of the olde-worlde pubs in the village where we had the dining room to ourselves and the full attention of the delightful young Czech waiter, who seemed to know Vera well. Very well. Unless his name is actually "Darling".
On my return from London I met up with Madame DeFarge for a festive libation or three and a bite to eat in London's trendy Pimlico district. We had never met before, but I had no trouble identifying the lady in the Phrygian bonnet knitting in the corner of the pub. Madame DeFarge is excellent company, erudite and witty, and I was surprised to find I could understand every word she said despite her broad Glasgow accent after two pints of Italian lager and a packet of Macadamia nuts.
During all my time in the UK I was keeping a weather eye on the telly whenever I could to check the situation of Eurostar, which had managed to have FIVE - not two, not three, not four, but FIVE - of its trains all break down at the same time from the wrong kind of snow. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, one breakdown is unfortunate, five is sheer carelessness. Thousands of passengers were unable to travel due to three full days of inactivity from the Anglo-French transport consortium. Last Tuesday - the day I was due to travel - a limited service resumed. I called Eurostar to find out what was going on, and got a recorded message telling me that I would not be able to travel until Wednesday while they cleared the backlog. I luckily managed to extend my hotel booking for an extra night and, having not much to rush back for, shrugged my shoulders gallically and looked forward to an extra day shopping.
I decided to stop by St Pancras anyway to see if it was as bad as they said. Imagine my shock when I got there to find NO-ONE! It was just like a normal day. No queues. No pandemonium. I approached a young man in a Eurostar armband, who told me that I could travel that day if I wanted. "That's no good!" I spluttered. "I've paid for another night's accommodation now!" He suggested I come back the same time the next day and assured me I should be able to just walk onto a train.
St Pancras International is not the worst place to spend hours hanging around for a train. It is spacious and full of shops and good restaurants. I lunched with an old friend from Paris, Neave Stoppes-Wittering, who was our wardrobe mistress at the Folies Bergère. We had the best fish and chips I have ever had at the Betjeman Arms, served by a charming Polish waiter. The sticky toffee pudding was small, but exquisite. Sticky toffee pudding is one of the great things about this country, and why I shall always be proud to be British.
I duly returned to St Pancras around 10.30 the following day, after a fairly leisurely session in Sainsbury's, to find the queue stretching halfway up the Euston Road. Almost speechless with horror, I asked an official how long was the wait. He estimated about seven hours! I nearly fainted. It was very cold outside. However, I girded my loins and parked my Big Green Tesco Bag (which is blue) at the end of the queue behind some equally horrified Americans who were very chatty and who kindly bought hot chocolate for our little group, including the young couple in front of them. I think they're still trying to apologize for Dubya. The Dunkirk spirit was soon rippling down the entire line, and friendships were forming the length of the queue, regardless of nationality. We stood shoulder to shoulder and shuffled forward a few metres at a time. There were no free hot drinks until we reached the Salvation Army stall some 90 minutes down the line, and once we got inside the terminal where we didn't need it, volunteers couldn't wait to foist polystyrene cups of hot tea and coffee on us. By this time I had spent a good two and a half hours with the couple of middle aged teachers from Savannah, GA and their retired friend Gaylord from Atlanta, who was spending his autumn years travelling around the world, and we had bonded. We took photographs of each other, exchanged e-mail addresses, I shared my Sainsbury's pork pies with them and we hugged on going our separate ways (they were going to Paris).
I finally climbed aboard the Eurostar five and a half hours after joining the queue, and exactly 24 hours after I should have travelled. It could have been worse. I wasn't stuck in the tunnel all night and didn't have to stagger down a mile of track hauling my matching luggage.
And it's an ill wind, as they say. Gaylord and I are planning a holiday together next year. But not on Eurostar.
Hope you had a merry little Christmas. Just New Year's to get through now.
On Friday I met Gorilla Bananas, who was a bit late. He panted his apologies as he unwound himself from several layers of scarves, woolly hats and gloves. "It's several degrees colder here than in the Congo," he explained with typical understatement. "And my fur is getting a bit thin in middle age." I bought him a hot chocolate to warm him up, poor old thing. Sadly the restaurant we had planned to have lunch in was FULLY BOOKED on a Friday lunchtime (so much for the recession!) so we repaired to a Pizza Express where we had some most acceptable Italian food served by a charming young Romanian waitress.
On Saturday I met the Grande Dame of the Thames Valley, Mrs Pouncer, who was looking resplendent in fake ocelot, fishnets and stiletto heeled thigh boots. She picked me up at the station and drove me on icy roads to one of those delightful country gastropubs they have down there. Unfortunately, once parked, she was unable to cross the car park which was like a skating rink without doing a Bambi. I suggested that I go in alone and have something sent out to her in the car, but she would have none of it, so I had to virtually carry her like an elderly and rather cantankerous relative to the safety of the pub's dining room. Once there, we had a delightful lunch, and the young Lithuanian waiter took the constant bottom-pinching with good humour.
Mrs Pouncer eating her soup daintily
I then proceeded to visit my cousin Vera Slapp in her bijou new des res in a chocolate-box Oxfordshire village with only one shop - Ye Olde Co-oppe - a post office that is so old the post box bears the letters GR (George Rex for the benefit of my colonial readers, meaning it pre-dates our current Queen), a beauty salon, a fireplace shop and three olde-worlde pubs, which gives you a fairly accurate picture of the type of people who live in the village. Rich and alcoholic. There is a particularly spectacular abbey, which even has a rotund and jolly lady vicar! It is not called Dibley, but might as well be. Vera's house is delightful, and this photograph of her fireplace decorated for Christmas would not be out of place on the cover of the Christmas edition of Country Life.
Vera is also something of a Delia, but I was cock-a-hoop to find she had never made her own sausage rolls! I gave her my secret tip: three layers of ready-made puff pastry rolled together make wonderfully light and puffy rolls. Don't forget the sausage meat. Vera and Cyril usually come to Brussels for the Christmas markets, but as I hadn't even made it to one myself this year, Vera rustled up some home-made vin chaud, or as it it now known even in Belgium thanks to Cyril's lack of French and poor hearing, banjo. Christmas just isn't Christmas without a sausage roll and a banjo. We had a delightful dinner at one of the olde-worlde pubs in the village where we had the dining room to ourselves and the full attention of the delightful young Czech waiter, who seemed to know Vera well. Very well. Unless his name is actually "Darling".
On my return from London I met up with Madame DeFarge for a festive libation or three and a bite to eat in London's trendy Pimlico district. We had never met before, but I had no trouble identifying the lady in the Phrygian bonnet knitting in the corner of the pub. Madame DeFarge is excellent company, erudite and witty, and I was surprised to find I could understand every word she said despite her broad Glasgow accent after two pints of Italian lager and a packet of Macadamia nuts.
During all my time in the UK I was keeping a weather eye on the telly whenever I could to check the situation of Eurostar, which had managed to have FIVE - not two, not three, not four, but FIVE - of its trains all break down at the same time from the wrong kind of snow. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, one breakdown is unfortunate, five is sheer carelessness. Thousands of passengers were unable to travel due to three full days of inactivity from the Anglo-French transport consortium. Last Tuesday - the day I was due to travel - a limited service resumed. I called Eurostar to find out what was going on, and got a recorded message telling me that I would not be able to travel until Wednesday while they cleared the backlog. I luckily managed to extend my hotel booking for an extra night and, having not much to rush back for, shrugged my shoulders gallically and looked forward to an extra day shopping.
I decided to stop by St Pancras anyway to see if it was as bad as they said. Imagine my shock when I got there to find NO-ONE! It was just like a normal day. No queues. No pandemonium. I approached a young man in a Eurostar armband, who told me that I could travel that day if I wanted. "That's no good!" I spluttered. "I've paid for another night's accommodation now!" He suggested I come back the same time the next day and assured me I should be able to just walk onto a train.
St Pancras International is not the worst place to spend hours hanging around for a train. It is spacious and full of shops and good restaurants. I lunched with an old friend from Paris, Neave Stoppes-Wittering, who was our wardrobe mistress at the Folies Bergère. We had the best fish and chips I have ever had at the Betjeman Arms, served by a charming Polish waiter. The sticky toffee pudding was small, but exquisite. Sticky toffee pudding is one of the great things about this country, and why I shall always be proud to be British.
I duly returned to St Pancras around 10.30 the following day, after a fairly leisurely session in Sainsbury's, to find the queue stretching halfway up the Euston Road. Almost speechless with horror, I asked an official how long was the wait. He estimated about seven hours! I nearly fainted. It was very cold outside. However, I girded my loins and parked my Big Green Tesco Bag (which is blue) at the end of the queue behind some equally horrified Americans who were very chatty and who kindly bought hot chocolate for our little group, including the young couple in front of them. I think they're still trying to apologize for Dubya. The Dunkirk spirit was soon rippling down the entire line, and friendships were forming the length of the queue, regardless of nationality. We stood shoulder to shoulder and shuffled forward a few metres at a time. There were no free hot drinks until we reached the Salvation Army stall some 90 minutes down the line, and once we got inside the terminal where we didn't need it, volunteers couldn't wait to foist polystyrene cups of hot tea and coffee on us. By this time I had spent a good two and a half hours with the couple of middle aged teachers from Savannah, GA and their retired friend Gaylord from Atlanta, who was spending his autumn years travelling around the world, and we had bonded. We took photographs of each other, exchanged e-mail addresses, I shared my Sainsbury's pork pies with them and we hugged on going our separate ways (they were going to Paris).
I finally climbed aboard the Eurostar five and a half hours after joining the queue, and exactly 24 hours after I should have travelled. It could have been worse. I wasn't stuck in the tunnel all night and didn't have to stagger down a mile of track hauling my matching luggage.
And it's an ill wind, as they say. Gaylord and I are planning a holiday together next year. But not on Eurostar.
Hope you had a merry little Christmas. Just New Year's to get through now.
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