For the first time in a while, a new lady at the ticket window at Epsom. She did say, but I did not catch, where she came from. Was she a transient, never to be seen again?
From which I moved on to ponder about the dreadful goings on at trade shows for the gambling industry, in the news that day and where, it seems, young ladies were paid to stand around, scantily dressed, for the amusement of male delegates. What struck me as the most dreadful part of these going on was the low pay of the young ladies concerned, reported to be as little as £100 a day. No self-respecting builder from TB would get out of bed for that. Not to mention a self-respecting sex worker. Not like the ladies above, turned up by Bing for 'gambling trade show', or some such, at all.
Pulled a Bullingdon from the ramp at Waterloo, to make it to the Drury Lane stand in 11 minutes and 7 seconds. I notice in passing that my use of the Bullingdon system is slipping, with TFL telling me the other day that my usage in December was zero and in January low. Surprised about December, but checking the blog record suggests that their computer has probably got it right.
Onto Shorts Garden, where I mentioned that the last Poacher (from their shop in Borough) was a little dry, at which point they tried to sell me some even more expensive cheddar instead - cheddar which was no doubt good of its kind, but not to my taste, so I stuck with Poacher. I also learned that their fine plastic bags, which we use for our pre-concert picnics and which they now charge 5p for, actually cost 6p. In any event, I avoid the 5p charge by remembering to take the bag from a previous occasion, usually good for an attempt at witticism from the shop assistant.
Onto a crowded Crown, where the barmaid with tattoos was missing. Reduced to using the back bar for once, where I had terrible trouble telling my telephone about my favourite picture, favourites being a good way to keep one's prize needles out of the haystack which is the camera roll. In my innocence, I thought that tapping the heart icon would do the trick, but it only seemed to work very erratically. I clearly need to sit down to the task and work out how to do it properly.
Down Monmouth Street, to notice my first Rossopomodoro restauramt, outside of a John Lewis, for which see reference 4. Isn't that new as it already features on Google Street View with the date of September 2017. Perhaps I just walked past A. N. Other Covent Garden restaurant before.
Onto a crowded Terroirs, where we were reduced to sitting at the bar until they decided that they had a no show. Interesting to see their small kitchen from close quarters, it not really being visible from the tables. Interesting that the barman, who did not seem to know about the wine - a 2015 Zellberg Sylvaner which I have had at least a couple of times before - that I had selected, took a swig to see, without asking, before handing it over to me. The wine was as good as ever, so I did not really mind, although I might well have done. Perhaps it is the custom in France.
Main course shoulder of lamb, well cooked and served on a bed of some kind of white beans, moistened with a brown gravy of some sort. Not quite what I was expecting - not that I had much idea what I was expecting, which words look a bit silly on the screen, but also seem to describe what happened well enough. Dessert the chocolate mousse which I had mistaken for coffee the first time that I had it. Washed down with double rations of their mid-range Calvados, a Dupont Hors D’âge, which I rather like.
Back across Hungerford Bridge in what seemed like a very cold, blue light. With the numbers of tourists making me think that London was being hollowed out, after the way of Venice. All the real life, all the real business is floating away, or perhaps evaporating, leaving the past glories of the town to be savoured by millions of tourists. One day, they will be pretty much all that is left of the place. Tourists from rich parts of Europe being serviced by workers from poor parts of Europe.
Then at Waterloo, not best pleased to find that the Economist has slipped up from £5 to £5.99. Partly because of the price rise, partly because the Economist is not showing respect for its august readership by thinking (and showing) that they can be cozened by £6 masquerading as a little more than £5. A well attested psychological fact, an odd quirk of the price effect, but, as far as this customer is concerned, it would have been more tactful not have reminded me of it.
Reference 1: http://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=tb. As can be seen, TB was once an important source of refreshment, entertainment and useful knowledge. Not usually tuberculosis.
Reference 2: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/rossopomodoro.html.
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