Mind the gap

"Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."

"Please mind the closing doors."

"This is the District Line service to Wimbledon."

"The next station is Parsons Green."

That was our stop for 10 days. For 10 days I could pretend to be a local, with an address in Fulham, a mobile with a London number and the strongest currency in the world in my wallet. I went shopping at Marks & Spencer and faced the banking beaurocracy at HSBC. I went for a few pints at night at the local pubs and clubbing on weekends. But at daytime I gave it all away with my camera and backpack and gapes at the scenery.

London neither accepts nor rejects one. The City just flows around one. It still is at the centre of the world as I know it. Best for shopping, best for financial services, best for entertainment, best for variety with class of all sorts. From Camden to Portabello, from Islington to Kensington, London presents a variety show without match in the West.

Westminster probably still presents the most revered houses of parlement anywhere in the world, Tony Blair notwithstanding. Some of the finest parlementary debates have been recorded in those halls. I caught the famous night view of Westminster across the Thames on silicon.

The City charms and frustrates in equal measure. But one learns to take it all in one's stride while keeping up the appearances in proper stoich fashion. London frowns upon outbursts and tantrums - that's so improper. The 6pm rush hour on the tube is a particularly trying exercise in proper London behaviour. Squeezing in will not do - very rude indeed. One will wait for the next train.

But England has a countryside too. And cathedrals. We went to see Cantebury Cathedral, but the town itself was picturesque beyond imagination. I had the best salmon ever for lunch - a reprieve from 15 years of cullinary boredom since I had a most unforgettable breakfast of sole in mushroom sauce on vacation at my old school mate's.

I went on my own mission to a village called Shere, near the famous Sherewood, where Robin Wood once had roamed as legend would have it. Went to visit an old South African mate. He drove a Mercedes 350 SLK. Lovely. Fast too.

Traffic around London and on the freeways were painfully congested. Getting out of London en route to Stonehenge took 90 minutes - partly because we got lost; partly because they closed one lane of a busy two-way road, which we should have missed but for getting lost.

Freeway traffic was much less eratic than in Boston and much less dangerous than in Cape Town. I was beginning to understand why the British prefer to put up with 65million other British on their island. Kindly keep the umbrella at hand, the rest will take care of itself.

Soho took care of a few nights in providing eclectic entertainment. Pubs and clubs were packed in with sex shops and fabulous creatures of the night. I had a brief, pleasurable moment or two with a student chap from - in typical English irony - New York. Nothing on camera, sorry.

Twentyfour hour bus service does keep one from spending the night in the gutter, but after hearing Leslie's complaints over the route and schedule, I decided to press through until the first tube service resumed on my nightly endeavours. Still, Boston should look and learn and tax and spend. We need publich transport over here at the wrong side of the pond - real public transport.

The Tube is the next best thing after the U-Bahn of Munich. The Tube is just everywhere - like the veins in a body. And those ubiquitous red busses are a treat to savour. Who needs a car in London? Why do they have traffic jams in London? Perhaps only Tony and the Queen need cars. Really now. But stay away from Earls Court. It is rubbish. Needs a revamp.

Then it was over. As I shuffled through the security checkpoint my heart was heavy in my shoes. Politely they did not ask for taking off my shoes. I made a last phone call to my mother as the flight was boarding. A last 6h on British soil were left of a glorious 10 days, albeit suspended on wings in midair, which was promptly stretched to 7h after Heathrow had closed a runway, causing a delightful air traffic jam - on the ground.

The cattle queue at Boston Passport Control did little to welcome me back. I did not want to be back. I was looking for the next flight to Heathrow.
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