Other-worldly Things

Here we are then. Back in good old London. We went to Nandos yesterday to chow down their infamous peri peri chicken. There, I discovered my niece's love for chips. Love, like no other. Well, except for mine. Soon she'll be learning all about kettle cooked chips, flavors to grab or avoid without a second thought and other life altering things. (She'll call them crisps but that will matter little.)

My flight was a bit uncomfortable. Delays, food that turned out to be a lot more impressive in words than in mouth, and leg room that was ... well, really it wasn't. By the seventh hour, I had mastered the art of sliding through a three inch gap between my seat and the seemingly comfortable person in the seat in front. I got to London in one (sore) piece though, and I suppose that's all that really matters.

In the last 24 hours, I haven't heard much of the English accent. That could be either because it all seems a lot more diverse to me, or that the city's peeps just aren't saying very much. After all, there's only so many times you can gnash your teeth and snarl about the "bloody English weather."

Despite the rather grey and washed out look of the place, I wandered down to Regents Park this afternoon, walked past magestic houses, took a stray photograph of the canal that whispered of a murder in its waters not long ago and dashed back to hot chocolate and a well-rested two-year old.

She's just ordered me to read her the "Boo Book" now so I must stop. Here's a sneak preview of what it's going to sound like:

Who said boo? Was it the ghost? No I'm making toast.
Who said boo? Was it the skeleton? No I'm making gelatin.
Was it the witches? No we're sewing stiches.

Literature at its finest!

When it was over, the hall erupted. In Vienna, it was the custom that the royal family was applauded four times whenever they made a public appearance. To the consternation of officials and police, Beethoven was applauded five times. Among the many poignant anecdotes surrounding Beethoven, none can be sadder than the account of the end of this, his most triumpant concert. As the applause roared and swelled throughout the hall, singers and conductor took their bows. No one thought of Beethoven until the young contralto soloist Caroline Unger noticed him still standing with head bowed, his back to the audience whose cheers he could not hear. It was not until she turned him round that he realised what he had acheived.