Regent's Palace Hotel
Glasshouse St., London

We were tourists, today. We walked among throngs and posed for pictures in front of lions, Eros, Nelson. The National Gallery, where we went as soon as we had dropped our bags at the hotel, proved more evocative than when I was seventeen. I sat for a long time in front of Monet, revelling in light and shadow. Tomorrow, Turner. We anticipate. Buses go by with huge advertisements for the show at the Tate, Whistler/Turner/Monet, we nudge each other. Tomorrow. I pointed out Buckingham Palace but Miguel resisted -- it transpired that I was correct, his hesitation inspired by a feeling that the reality was not ornate enough. I identify what I can, fill in the pieces with my strange childhood recollections -- that's the Duke of York, and he and his ten thousand men went up a hill, but I don't know why.

We had fish and chips for dinner, with brown sauce and fish knives. I explain the use of fish knives -- don't put it down, keep your fork in the other hand. He gamely acquiesces. We discuss, in an unfocused way, how he had no idea there were so very many old buildings stretching on and on, with new bits added on at random. How he thought people would be more smoothly dressed, how cosmopolitan London is.

We discuss the fact, while walking back from the Palace in the dark, that we are now too old to move to London and be young and hip. We settle for tourist.

On the Underground this morning, we are stopped at Knightsbridge and the station is evacuated due to some unspecified emergency. Everyone obediently streams out into the street and heads for Green Park. We find our way slowly to the hotel.

Tonight, there is Ribena. And Hula Hoops and Milky Way bars. Food of my childhood. Our room is the size of a shoebox but it has a bed. We are in London.