Mr Bradley's Day Out

The early morning (07.07) train carried me leisurely from ‘Colchester Town’ to ‘Colchester Railway station’, once there another, no less friendly, ‘Great Eastern’ locomotive melodically beat sleepers towards a freshly awakened Liverpool Street, and London Town.

It was an unhurried day, full of sky and sunshine, with a dash or two of pre-autumn leaves sashaying to earth. London quietly hummed along and people peopled everywhere to the rhythm of their own heartbeats.

My tummy growled its morning greeting, asking when the promised breakfast might arrive. I answered soon, and took the Hammersmith & City tube to Aldgate East. I had a plan, you see. A plan formulated ages ago, when eating bagels in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I had wished that I could partake of the smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels which I'd remembered from my favourite bagel joint, during my nine years of weekends visiting London’s East End.

I walked.

I walked through from Aldgate East, eventually, to a Brick Lane which was no longer Monica Ali’s. It was Monday, and the party was over. Streets and pavements were graced with the party’s remnants. I sidled into a Bengali store, with curious looks from the locals, and sought out species unattainable in Colchester. I managed to get dried, not fresh, curry leaves and a refill for the ‘Panch Puren’ an erstwhile friend had given, but was running out, and black mustard seeds too.

The morning was bright and I was in a good mood, and so walked on, singing all sorts of Summer’s day songs in my head and, before I knew it, there I was, at ‘Beigel Bake’, and my breakfast awaited.

True to my vision, I ordered a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel which, when it appeared, was plumper than any of those pretend bagels that I had seen in the several years interval between visits. My accompanying paper cup of tea almost raneth over and was pleasant, but I'd expected a stained white ceramic mug. Those days have gone.

I stood, as so many times before, and slowly savoured the Brick Lane bagel experience, simultaneously looking longingly at the vast array of freshly produced pastries, and imagining just how many I could eat before becoming sick. I calculated, probably one. 

I exited Brick Lane with a sigh and a backward glance at salt beef sandwiches, and found myself in Bethnal Green Road. Before me a number 8 double decker bus drifted by. ‘Now that’s a good idea' I thought and walked down the road a little, to the Bus Stop. 

I hadn’t long to wait before another number 8 bus appeared. I proffered my ‘Oyster Card’, went upstairs, and relaxed as the London Transport bus trundled its way, not unpleasantly, to Tottenham Court Road, and London’s West End. I had thoughts of Sandi Toxvig and her not dissimilar journeying in London, while Flanders and Swan's "Big six-wheeler, scarlet-painted, London Transport, diesel-engined, ninety-seven–horse-power omnibus" (from their 'A Transport of Delight',1957 song), entertained my mind.

The road which, when not proffering sexual delights, had been filled with bookshops selling remaindered books, looked empty. I emerged opposite the Palace Theatre and 'Harry Potter', in ginormous letters. Not being much of a fan I didn't linger, but instead walked down towards the National Portrait Gallery and followed a pride of inert and quite colourful lions, to the National Art Gallery at Trafalgar Square where I was greeted by the sculpture of a giant dollop of whipped cream, with a cherry on top. There was a fly and a drone as well.

Crossing the road, I stood for a moment as someone was opening the doors to Tourism Malaysia.The irony did not escape me.

Still fuelled by my bagel and tea, I wandered down to Whitehall and Parliament then along Victoria Embankment, where I sat and mused a little, watching all sorts of river craft float along the Thames. If I'd had company I might have suggested a river tour. It's been ages since I did that. But I didn't fancy it alone.

Ambling along I found the amazing greenery of The Victoria Embankment Gardens, and its imposing statuary. I didn't stop, except to take photographs like the tourist I was, but headed to Charing Cross and scooted up towards Covent Garden. By this time I was looking for lunch and had but one stop in mind, a Singaporean style restaurant I’d heard of.

The said Singaporean eatery wasn’t in Covent Garden, as proclaimed, but in New Row. The chicken curry taste was pretty authentic, but ultimately spoiled by being microwaved, and previously frozen. I could tell this because potatoes really don't fare well after being frozen. The cendol (iced sweet dessert) was okay but, like many places in Malaysia, it was mostly ice and the green noodles were too soft. But overall it was what I was looking for, and I found it. Next time I’d probably seek somewhere else.

The surprise of the day came just a few doors down from that eatery. I sauntered down that ‘row’, and was passing some other eateries when a be-hatted congenial Afro-Caribbean man smiled at me. He sat, strangely enough, right next to a hattery. I saw the hats and, as if beguiled, drifted in. The be-hatted gentleman followed me in. As we were talking hats another, younger, slimmer gentleman appeared. I had to look twice. This new man wore his blonde hair in the old mod style of Rod Stewart and had a very similar look about him (Tank Top), all except for ‘The Illustrated Man’ tattoos. Together they could have been characters from some London dystopian Neil Gaiman novel. They were friendly. I bought a black fedora (hat), and was told that ‘black’ was not the usual colour for hats. I didn’t ask why, but I should have.

Going up to China Town, which is (according to Wikipedia) is Gerrard Street, the bottom half of Wardour Street, Rupert Street and Rupert Court, a section of Shaftesbury Avenue and Lisle Street, Macclesfield Street and Newport Place, Newport Court and Little Newport Street, I was searching for one particular Malaysian curry powder (Baba’s), but couldn’t find it. Instead I bought ‘Char Siew Buns’ (baked buns containing Chinese roast pork in sauce) to take home for dinner.

I wandered up to Tottenham Court Road, and caught a number 8 bus (again) back to Liverpool Street Station, then my (16.17) train to Colchester, and finally Colchester Town station and walked back to my lodgings, about half a mile. It was a great, but tiring, day. I admit, part of me wants to live nearer to London, as I did back in the late 1960s (Westbourne Grove), another loves the countryside. I guess that Colchester is a compromise with London an hour away by train.