Expelled from Eton
Trip Start
Nov 15, 2000
1
13
Trip End
Ongoing
London, United Kingdom
Saturday, February 3, 2007
I'm told you've been getting tales in Oz about how horrific the weather is here, don't know why really because, despite dire predictions of 5" of snow and utter chaos in London (just for a new experience) the worst we've had (aside from that mini-tornado of course) has been a mere 1"- 2" of snow on a couple of days a week or so apart. Mind you I've since been told that it never snows heavily in London because it's too hot here! (from car exhaust apparently). 1"-2" was enough to transform the streets.
The sleet is quite something else though! I don't fancy sleet at all. It's a kind of thawing ice sludging down on you in semi-solid droplets from the sky. And it stings when it hits you. I've never experienced sleet before and hope never to do so again - it's kinda like the Gollum of winter weather (there's something inherently revolting about it) as opposed to the snow which, while bloody cold, is very pretty, has romantic overtones (unless your toddling off to work in it) and beautifies everything it touches.
Given my gullibility and the weatherman's confident predictions of snow, I kept waking up during the night and to peer out the window like a kid watching for Santa on Christmas Eve , to "see if it had happened yet" and was repeatedly disappointed. It seemed the weatherman had once again been the agent of misinformation.
When I finally woke to my alarm I could sense that something was different. Aside from the top of my head feeling absolutely frozen silly (I sleep with my head right next to the window) the place was unusually quiet. I peered out the window in curiosity (having already adjusted to the disappointment of the dodgy predictions of meteorologists) and saw SNOW.
I squealed and ran up and down on the spot in excitement before I remembered that my age demanded a certain sense of decorum and regained control of all but my stupid wide grin.
Our front courtyard (complete with peeling picnic table, bicycles covered with a tarp and the broom head waiting for a handle) looked as though it was straight off a wintry Christmas card. Everything lightly dusted with snow. Outside the gate was even better, there was a light dusting of snow on the pavement and drifts of snow atop cars and buses. The usual rush-hour crush of humanity seemed to glide effortlessly, rather than careen about like balls in a pin-ball machine.
Cameras primed Su and I ventured forth and went berserk. We have pics of snow in our courtyard, me standing behind the small drift of snow in our courtyard, Su standing behind the small drift of snow in out courtyard, snow of the ground, snow on the trees, snow on the cars, snow blanketing Kensington Palace gardens, snow on a red phone box (to prove we were in London when it snowed), pics of me cautiously picking my way along and trying to remain upright.
I discovered a flaw in that age-old adage about the advantage of following on in the footsteps of others. When the pavement is covered in snow it's best to hop from one pile of undisturbed snow to another, for the footsteps of those who have gone before you have compacted the snow into little icy patches which are dead slippery. Su, haling from Dunedin as she does (where the washing on the line can be snapped into pieces if you leave it out overnight), has mastered the art of sashaying through snow though and could stride about quite confidently.
We took hundreds of pics of snow on every imaginable thing (I've attached a selection for your viewing amusement / annoyance).
We were obviously tourists.
The locals seemed largely unimpressed - especially as (yep, U guessed it) train services were severely delayed because of snow on the line.
Last Saturday we (Su, Syd and I) finally went to Windsor to have a look-see at the castle there - innovatively referred to as Windsor Castle.
It's only a 50 minute relaxing train-ride, unless of course your fellow passengers are a hoard of football (read soccer) fans heading off to Twickenham (which, sadly, is en-route to Windsor) to watch England play Italy.
The wintry weather significantly thinned the usual Windsor tourist crowds, so there was no queuing for anything, which is almost unheard of over here.
Had we gone in Summer however it would have been vastly different, as the place is apparently overrun. We saw queue dividers marked with signs such as "45 minutes from here" (and that sign was about 6 feet away from the entrance to see Queen Mary's doll's house). We however were able to just wander straight in have a look (it's very impressive).
The doll's house is a 3 storey structure standing about 5 feet high and, we were informed by the guide at the door, is a working model - i.e. water (hot and cold) runs from the taps, the light switches work and each room (except the kitchen and servant's room) is lit by tiny electric chandeliers and the wine-casks in the cellar contain real wine. I happened to notice there were some miniature cannon around the perimeter of the dolls house, but couldn't find anyone who could tell me if they contained live rounds or not.
Actually Queen Mary's dolls enjoy a far superior standard of living than do most of the antipoedians living here in London. By the way, I know I've described the flat (read room) we share but have I shown you any pics? No? Well I'll attach some to enhance your understanding as to why I was so jealous of the doll's accommodation.
Regarding Windsor castle itself, my overall impression was, as I remarked sagely to the guard on the gate, that "Liz's house is pretty big". He agreed, adding that she was home at the moment.
I looked up at the round tower and thought I saw a curtain twitch shut and a crowned head draw quickly back from the window. Mentioning this to him, I asked if he'd seen her looking out the window too and that's how he knew she was home. He looked at me uncertainly, and drew back a little as he explained that the Royal Standard was flying and that indicates she's home.
"Hmmm" I replied, sounding a little concerned, "does that mean we're likely to encounter any Corgis" ?
I explained that I wasn't too fussed about that prospect, as Corgis are ill-tempered, snappy little buggers and they'll have a piece out of your ankle as quick as look at you. He reassured me that the Corgis would all be inside warming themselves by the fire with Liz and true enough I spotted nary a one the whole day, nor heard even the far-off sound of a vicious little snarl.
By far the most impressive aspect of the whole day was a visit to St. George's chapel which is within the grounds of Windsor Castle. St. George's chapel is renowned as being one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical buildings in England dating back to1475 and is the Chapel of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, which is apparently Britain's highest order of Chivalry.
Seems story goes like this :- at a Ball, The Countess of Salisbury dropped her garter and King Edward, seeing how embarrassed she was, picked it up and tied it around his own leg, saying in French, "Evil, (or shamed) be he that that thinks ill of it" (not sure whether he meant thinking ill of her for losing the garter or him for retrieving it and tying it to his own leg). Thank God though that it was only her garter that hit the floor and not her undies (bet he wouldn't have been as 'chivalrous' then). Can you imagine the symbology of 'The Most Noble Order of the Knickers' - and would they be G-strings or cottontails nowadays?
Whatever the original scenario, it has now become symbolic of great chivalry rather than club for people with a penchant for cross-dressing.
The stained glass windows in the chapel are the most numerous and detailed that I have ever seen and the intricate carvings high above the thrones that each member sits on, is balanced an individually designed crown or coronet and a banner (like a coat of arms).
Alas photos were prohibited - but if you find yourself ethralled and gagging for more detail, feel free to surf the net for pics and history.
I asked a guide what this was about and he explained that the Order is bestowed upon members of the British commonwealth who have made some noteworthy contribution to public service (although I do question the selection panel's judgement as Maggie Thatcher was up there).
I told him that I'd been a public servant for over 21 years now and he said I could well be in the running then, as there was a 'vacancy'. Males and females are equally eligible it seems.
Once the Order is bestowed, the individual creates their own unique banner which contains symbols representative of aspects of their life and achievement. Sir Ninian Stephen has a coat of arms which has 2 thistles (he was born in Scotland) surrounded by wattle (to represent his Australian connection), while Sir Edmond Hiliary's has a Kiwi carrying an ice-pick.
I didn't see what Maggie Thatcher had - probably the balls of a welfare recipient in the palm of her hand.
Feel free to offer suggestions as to what you think mine should be (though as some are likely to be less than flattering perhaps send them via my private email address rather than this public forum - lol).
Anyway, the Order is only valid while you are alive and, once you die, your banner and crown/coronet are removed to allow a place for the next person (hence the 'vacancy to which the guide had previously referred).
Their memory is not lost however, as a small brass plaque (complete with 'coat of arms') is erected for each person who has ever had The Order bestowed upon them, so the honour recorded there for all eternity.
Given that Eton college was visible from the grounds of Windsor castle we figured we'd go for a quick look-see.You cross a footbridge over the Thames to get to Eton and I can now advise you all that we (Su, Syd and I) have been formally expelled from Eton College.
We followed a small group of obvious tourists through the huge wooden front gates and into large quadrangle (despite having noticed a sign which clearly read "closed to the public"). They were a noisy and blatant bunch these tourists, which was lucky for us as they provided an excellent decoy and bought us time inside. I have to say I was unimpressed with the bare quadrangle and it's lonely statue (you'll see what I mean from the pics), although Su reckons there's a better quadrangle through the far doorway. We were too afraid of discovery and eviction to 'make a break for it' and have a look.
Never ones to shun our tourist photographic obligations when in famous places, (irrespective of the paucity of subject matter), we concealed ourselves as best we could by standing stock still in as thin a straight line as our expanding waistlines allowed - beside a pillar, trying to get in as many 'happy snaps' as we could before the curator, who was determinedly ejecting the others, discovered us in our hiding place.
Which he did.
His manner and tone leant itself neither to challenge nor jocularity and we withdrew quietly in the direction of his pointing finger, wandering back towards the riverfront where we gawped at and photographed swans and at anything else that looked vaguely interesting as we killed time waiting for our train back to London.
I have a singularly unique picture of a swan 'feeding' and I just know that Richard Attenborough would have killed for just such a pic. One minute the swan was merely looking directly into my camera lens and then,just as the lens clicked it decided to feed. How lucky was I. I know you'll all want copies, so have attached it for you to download and undoubtedly frame!You all know my address if you want autographed copies.
By this time it was late evening and,not suprisingly, raining so we were very relieved to finally be able to sit comfortably in our warm train carriage and
reveiw our day's photographic achievements. Satisfied with our efforts we then took in our surroundings.
Syd noticed that on the parcel shelf above our heads was a guitar. Never one to feel comfortable seeing a musical instrument abandoned, I stood and went to remove it from the shelf with view to handing it in to the guard as lost property (but first testing it's tuning and perhaps playing a couple of vaguely remembered classical tunes to help the journey pass pleasurably).
Never let it be said that I haven't heeded those repetitive security warnings played on continuous loop on all public transport - so I joked that, " if it goes 'bang' when I pick it up, I want my gravestone to note (no pun intended) that my last thoughts were of matters musical". Syd pointed out however that they could have some difficulty conveying my request because, if it went "bang" then they would undoubtedly be joining me in the forever-after.
Laughing, I placed my fingers around the guitar's neck and was about to gently slide it towards the edge of the parcel shelf when I noticed a discoloured hand written sticker on the side. Hoping it might be the name (+address even) of the owner I read it.
It said:- " the trap ".
Veeeery slowly and veeery carefully I released my grip on the neck, as a feeling which I can only describe as being similar to having gallons of warm molasses poured over my head, suffused me. There was no bang and,in keeping with my avoidant personality, I thought it best to treat it as an obvious joke and pretend I hadn't seen it until such time as I could lightheartedly point it out to a gurad, whose unenviable duty it would be to deal with it.
That's all for now folks, more when I return from my 'tour of duty ' in Barcelona.
Comments
indeed indeed
Lyn you never fail to amuse me. I've linked my travelpod to yours so I can pop over to visit in my duller moments at work.