Last Day in London

And I’m frantically trying to find a Rock and Roll tour of London for Greg. All those in cabs or minivans go off on days other than Friday. Sigh. Rock and roll – I ask you! Looks like a London Walk at 2 from Tottenham Court tube station. Also looks like I’ll be dashing out before hand to Apsley House. On my own, thank goodness. One must have solitude in order to properly – HOLY GOD – the smoke alarm in our room just went off and scared the living Hell out of me . . . . be still my heart . . . . where was I? Oh, yeah, solitude in order to properly contemplate the glorious triumphs and wonderous achievements of the Duke of Wellington. . . . . Going to try once again for dinner at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, then back to the hotel to pack. Can I tell you how much I don’t want to leave? Life is oft times unfair, is it not? I mean really, if life were fair, I’d be living at Apsley House. I don’t know who else has more of a right to do so. The Wellesley family hardly qualify – they were simply born into it. I’ve earned it. I’d have my rooms overlooking the Wellington Arch. I’d sit at a table before the window every morning, watching the tour buses and black cabs go round and round as I smoked cigarettes and sipped my coffee from the official William and Kate tankard I bought in Buckingham Palace last night. Each day as I made my way downstairs I’d sneer at Napoleon’s statue and ask my man (one must have a man, no?) to arrange for tea at the Ritz. Or the Mandarin Oriental. Or some such. You’d all be invited to come and stay. It would be such fun. We could stroll Rotten Row and eat dinner in the Waterloo Chamber. And drink glasses of port round the fire. And play whist while dressed in Regency garb. We could try on Wellington’s boots and afterwards we could slip upstairs and raid the attics. Just imagine what we’d find in all those dusty trunks and boxes . . . . . Sigh. Rock and roll – I ask you!

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