A Couple in England – Page 6 – Number One London

A Couple In England – Day Three – Part Three

After leaving Horse Guards, I aimed the Hubby and myself back towards Trafalgar Square.

“Didn’t we just come this way?”

“We did. Now we’re going the other side of it.”

“Where are we going?” Hubby asked.

“Cecil Court.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where my antiques dealer is. Remember we went there the last time we were in London?”

“Oh, jeez, the place where you guys talk for hours about the Duke of Wellington?”

“Not hours, surely.”

“And where you buy more Wellington stuff? Are you going to buy more Wellington stuff this time? When are you going to stop buying Wellington stuff?”

“When they pry my cold, dead fingers away from my credit card.”

“Honest to God, Hon, it’s like we live in a museum as it is.”

I didn’t have a comeback for that. What could I have said? We don’t live in a museum? We do. And, honest to God, there’s barely any wall space left.

“Look, I promise not to buy any more Wellington stuff unless it’s really outstanding. Okay?”

I took us down St. Martin’s Lane and from there it was just a short walk to the turning for Cecil Court, a pedestrian thoroughfare lined with book, print and antique shops.

Now, if I had any sense in my head, or if I were the crafty sort, I wouldn’t share the name of my favourite antique dealer with you, let alone his exact location, but I trust that you and I are such good mates by now that, should you visit the shop, you’ll content yourself with buying things associated with William IV or Lord Nelson, or even Queen Victoria, and leave all the Wellington bits and bobs for me.

The shop is just the right size for browsing and it’s absolutely crammed, floor to ceiling, with items from the Georgian period to the early 1900’s. I can, and have, spent hours in the shop. Mark is very personable and always pours me a drink before encouraging me to light up. We sip, smoke and have an old fashioned chin wag as the time flies by. We discuss Florida, Wellington items that we both missed out on, Wellington items that one or the other of us haven’t missed out on, dogs, restaurants, etc., etc.

On this particular day, Mark wasn’t there himself, but my good mate and Mark’s partner Dave was. That’s Dave in the picture below, in the white shirt.

“The Wellington Woman!” Dave greeted me. “How’s your daughter? Is she with you?” Dave’s Boston Terrier came out from behind the counter to greet me and we spent a few minutes catching up on the past two years. It was about this time that the Hubby sidled towards the door and quietly let himself out. Then, as always, Dave threw out some Wellington trivia in his ongoing attempts to stump me.

“Publish and be damned.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Really? That’s the best you have? Harriet Wilson, that slut.”

“By God, I think my leg’s gone,” he said.

I sighed. “Henry Paget, after being shot in the leg at Waterloo. We just saw Paget’s leg at Horse Guards, as a matter of fact.”

“No! It was the Marquess of Angelsey,” Dave cried with delight.

“No. It wasn’t either. It was just plain, old Henry Paget. He wasn’t created Marquess of Angelsey until a few days afterward. The same Henry Paget who had, years earlier, run off with the wife of Wellington’s brother.” Why did this story sound so familiar?

“I didn’t know that. Really?”

“Why would I lie?”

Dave stared off into space for a few moments, his mind working. Finally, he said, “Sparrow hawks, ma’am.”

“To Queen Victoria. Great Exhibition. 1851.”

“I give up,” Dave conceded. “Honestly, I can’t believe how much you know about the Duke of Wellington. You should do something with that knowledge. You could make money at it.”

“Like what?” Why did this suggestion sound so familiar?

“Like give talks. People would pay money to listen to you.”

“Alas, not enough people to make a living at it. I can’t see a Wellington lecture filling Albert Hall, can you? And there’d be even less people in America who would be interested in the Duke of Wellington, or who’d even know who he was.”

“You’re probably right. Pity, though.”

We were both silent for a time, contemplating the prospects of a traveling Wellington show. Finally, I said, “So, what have you got for me?”

“Ah, not much, I’m afraid. Wellington items are a bit thin on the ground just now.”

“Well, it would be hard to beat that figurine I bought from you last time, in any case.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Staffordshire, wasn’t it? That was a beauty.” Again, we were both silent, this time contemplating my acquisition of the figurine below.

“Didn’t you also buy a pot lid?”

“I did. The Duke riding at Stratfield Saye.” You can see me holding it, in the very same shop two years ago, below.

“I just remembered, I’ve got one very similar to it, but at Walmer Castle.” Dave found the lid and handed it to me. “Very like the one you bought, with the Duke riding his horse in the foreground.”

“He was Lord of the Cinque Ports, which is why he spent time at Walmer Castle,” Dave said.

“Hhhmmm. It was his favorite residence. He lived there with Charles Arbuthnot. They’d walk the battlements together. In fact, Wellington died there.”

“Yeah, that’s right. He did.”

“Sold. What else have you got?” Okay. The Walmer pot lid wasn’t what I’d term outstanding, but it certainly was beautiful. And besides, it rounds out the collection.

“I’ve got a brass profile of the Duke. Here it is.”

“Have one.”

“There are a couple of bronze commemorative medallions,” Dave offered.

I peered into the case. “Too like the ones I already have.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

This was deflating news. I had hoped to find something magnificent whilst in London, on a par with the figurine. It was a bit like charging off to Waterloo only the find that the battle had taken place the day before. “I’ll browse for a bit.” There was an Artie-fact in the shop – I could feel it.. I took my time and peered at cigarette cases and vinagarettes, figurines and a William IV coronation jug. Mourning rings, snuff boxes and a spy glass. Scanning to the right, my eye fell upon a small, coloured portrait.

“I found the Duke of Wellington,” I told Dave.

“Huh? Where?” I pointed. “So it is!”

I will leave the portrait and it’s history for another post. Suffice it to say that I bought it and Dave was able to carefully wrap both pieces so that I could pack them in my suitcase and later carry them on the plane with me. I walked out of the shop and found Hubby lurking in Cecil Court.

“Want to see what I got?”

He looked at the smallish bag in my hand. “No. I’ll wait till we get home. At least it’s not another full length portrait. I’m hungry.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel and have Afternoon Tea,” I suggested.

“Tea? Who drinks tea? And I said I was hungry.”

I sighed. “Afternoon tea is a meal. It comes with food.”

“Steak food?”

“No! Tea food. Sandwiches.”

“Oh, a sandwich. That sounds good. I could go for a sub. Yeah, a nice, big hero sandwich would really hit the spot!”

Part Four Coming Soon!

A Couple In England – Day Three -Part Two

Leaving the Duke of York’s Column, we headed towards Trafalgar Square and on towards Horse Guards.

“Why is it that wherever we go in London, we’re always passing either Big Ben or Apsley House?”

“Because London, old London, is not really that big. The City of London was known as the Square Mile. Strictly speaking, our hotel in Mayfair is without the City.”

“Without the City what?”

“Outside the City. As far as the time periods and people I’m interested in go, the most important bits of London are bounded on the east by the Tower, in the west by Knightsbridge, to the north by Bayswater Road and to the south by Southwark.”

“But why do you keep going to the same places every time you come to London? How many times have you been to Horse Guards?”

“Practically every time I’ve been in London.”

“That’s nuts. Why do you do it?”

“For the same reason that I keep returning to Apsley House. I’m hoping that one day I’ll see the Duke of Wellington. The first Duke of Wellington. I keep going to St. James’s Street because I’m hoping to spot Brummell walking into White’s. And I go to the Burlington Arcade because I want to one day find my carriage and coachman waiting there for me. I can’t actually go back to 19th century London, so I return to the scenes of the crimes, so to speak, and imagine what once was. Plus, while I do the rounds of the same places, I’m always looking at other areas surrounding them, too. Each time I explore some new aspect of the area.”

“Your ghost is going to haunt London when you die.”

“One can but hope.”

We walked down Whitehall and past the Clarence Pub, where Victoria and I have been known to raise a pint together, and were soon at Horse Guards.

The Household Calvary on duty are an impressive sight and there are always tourists surrounding the mounted guards and taking pictures. On this particular day, the crowds were huge – one could barely navigate the sidewalk for all the people pressing in to see the guards.

“Are they allowed to get that close? Look, the horse doesn’t like it, he’s tossing his head. Hey, they’re touching the horse. Are they allowed to do that?

“I don’t think there’s a rule that you can’t get that close, but I’ve never seen the guards being that crowded before.”

“Why don’t they back off? It’s crazy.” No sooner had Hubby voiced these words than the mounted guard slowly, but deliberately, backed his horse further into the archway. Still looking straight ahead, we watched as he raised his right arm and began pushing a button on the interior wall. It was as contained as a cry for help could be.

“Did you see that?” Hubby asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t even know they had panic buttons in there. Come on, let’s get out of this crowd.”

“Are you nuts? I’m not leaving until I see who comes to rescue him.”

So we waited. And waited. And waited. Reader – no one came to his rescue.

“I can’t believe no one is coming,” Hubby said, disappointed.

“No doubt they have cameras watching. Maybe whomever is manning them looked at the situation and didn’t deem it enough of an emergency to send the guards. Come on; no one is coming so let’s go.”

We walked through the courtyard and into the archway that leads to the back parade ground.

There is always a guard stationed in the arch, near the entrance to what was once the Duke of Wellington’s office.

“This is where they had the beach vollyeball during the Olympics,” I told Hubby when we came out into the rear yard.

“Uh huh.”

“You know, everyone goes to the Palace to see the changing of the guard, but if you come here any day at 4 p.m. you can see the daily inspection parade. Then you don’t have to fight the crowds. Although it’s not the same, is it?”

“Uh huh. Why are we standing here? It’s freezing.”

Sigh. “I’m just taking it all in, communing with the history. Look up there, that’s the window to Wellington’s office.”

“Uh huh.”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Inside where? What’s this?”

“The Household Calvary Museum.”

“What’s in there?”

“Household Calvary stuff!”

The Museum traces the history of the Household Calvary from the 1600’s to present day and, once Hubby got a look a the uniforms, arms, saddles, etc., he got into the spirit of the thing.

The Calvary’s stable is adjacent to the Museum and there’s a portion of the Museum that features a glass partition, through which visitors can see the horses in their stalls. It so happened that there was a guide on duty in the viewing room.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching him. “Can you tell me if Sefton is here?” Sefton, you may recall, was the Calvary horse who was injured but survived the 1982 IRA bomb in Hyde Park.

He gave me a sad smile and a pitying look. “Sefton is dead, Madam.”

“The original Sefton is dead, yes. But in his honour there is always a horse named Sefton in the regiment. I just wondered if he was stabled here.”

He seemed somewhat taken aback. “I didn’t know that. And I don’t know much about the individual horses kept here. There’s a bit about Sefton in the museum, however, towards the end. You may be interested.”

“No doubt. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“I love it when you do that!”

“I didn’t do anything. I just asked a question.”

“I love it when you tell them stuff they didn’t know and they give you that `just who the Hell are you?’ look.”

“Stop it.”

“You should get a job here.”

“At Horse Guards?”

“Somewhere in England, at a museum or a castle or something.”

God, are you listening?

We spent the next half hour looking at the various displays, with a particular focus on Waterloo relics, like the pistol ball that wounded Sir Robert Hill and, in my opinion the best of the lot, the Marquess of Angelsey’s artificial leg. You may recall my previous post on Paget’s leg. If not, you can find it here.

“Look, Paget’s leg!”

“Who?”

“Henry Paget. Afterwards the Marquess of Angelsey. He ran off with the wife of Wellington’s brother, Henry. Henry suffered a sort of mental breakdown and was unable to care for his children, who went to live with Artie and Kitty for a time. Later, at Waterloo, it turned out that Artie had to put up with having Paget on his staff. When the fighting was over, Artie and Paget were both on their horses, talking, when one of the last shots of the battle was fired and hit Paget, nearly taking his leg off. He had to have it amputated shortly afterwards.”

“Maybe Artie shot him. Who could blame him?”

Who, indeed? We finished our visit to Horse Guards in the gift shop, where I bought the Christmas ornament below –

“I’ll just take this,” I said, pushing the ornament towards the clerk at the till. “Everyone should have the Duke of Wellington on their Christmas tree.”

“Yes, they should,” said the clerk. “Although you are the first person who’s recognized it as being the Duke. Everyone else seems to think that it’s Prince Albert.”

Hubby put his lips to my ear and whispered, “That’s my girl!”

Part Three Coming Soon . . . . .

A Couple in England – Day Three – Part One

It occurs to me that since you’ve been invited along with the Hubby and I on our trip to England, you might like to see what your companions look like. The photo above was taken on my last birthday. We didn’t take many pics of ourselves during the course of our trip to England – for reasons that will eventually become clear. In London, it was the weather or the fact that we’re neither of us picture people to begin with.

We began Day Three as we had Day One and Day Two, at Caffe Nero. One of the handful of things the Hubby and I actually have in common is that we both turn our faces against breakfast. Give us a coffee and two cigs each and we’re good to go. Our first destination was Buckingham Palace, via Green Park. This picture, taken as we entered the Park will demonstrate what a dreary day it was.

No sooner had we started towards the Palace then we came across this plaque for the Princess of Wales Memorial Walk. As you can see, I stopped to take a photo.

“This is the Princess Diana Memorial Walk,” I said.

“Yes . . . I can see that.”

“It winds through four London parks and takes in sites associated with her.”

“Uh huh.” At least he didn’t say my good man.

I looked around at our surroundings. “Green Park.” I sighed. “It was originally a burial site for lepers. Later, they had entertainments here, like ballonists and fireworks.” He doesn’t care! I reminded myself. I can’t help myself! I rejoined. “Handel’s Music For The Royal Fireworks was written specifically for a display here.The Earls of Bath and Bristol fought a duel here.”

“Uh huh.”

Leaving Hubby to his own thoughts (one can only guess) I began taking random photos of the park. The example below is a particular favorite of mine.

Before long, we had reached the Palace. There was only an abbreviated changing of the guard, as we were there on an off day and they really just trotted by on their way to the barracks. We missed most of the pomp and all of the circumstance, but it didn’t matter. We were at Buck House and I took a few more photos to add to the hundred I’ve already taken of the environs.

Finally, we gazed through the gates at the Palace.

“We were inside there last time,” I sighed.

“Yeah. That was great.”

“You enjoyed it?”

“Sure! Who wouldn’t? It was great. The best part was when you told that guide who the guy in the picture was.”

What actually happened was that during the course of our evening champagne tour of the Palace, the guide showed our group around the throne room, but totally ignored a huge, full length portrait of a robed figure. As she walked away I approached her. “Excuse me,” said I, pointing at the painting. “Isn’t that a Wellesley?” Our guide seemed taken aback. “Why, yes. Yes it is.”

“Isn’t it Richard Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington’s eldest brother?”

“I’m amazed that you know that,” the guide had replied.

“Let me get this straight,” I said to Hubby now. “You hate it when I go on about British history to you, but you like it when I point things out to others?”

“Yeah. I love it. The look on their faces is priceless.”

Go figure.

We moved on and walked through St. James’s Park on our way to Horse Guards and came upon a gaggle of friendly geese, birds and squirrels, all of whom charmed the Hubby, who stopped to admire them and suddenly didn’t mind the cold.

“I wish we had some bread,” said Hubby. “Why didn’t we bring bread?”

If the fowl were friendly, the squirrels were even more so.

“Look. They’re going right up to people. We should have brought some bread with us.”

Hubby went on in this manner for quite some time, inexplicably entranced with London wildlife. Eventually, he began making noises meant to draw the squirrels nearer. “C’mere squirrel. Come on. Click, click, click. “Here boy . . . here boy . . . . that’s it, good boy . . . . hey, hey, HEY!”

“Did you see that? He attacked me!”

“He didn’t attack you! What did you expect with all that clicking and here boying?”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s hysterical. You jumped about three feet.” Now I have to tell you that I didn’t take the last picture, I stole it off the web. Apparently, the St. James’s Park squirrels are known for this sort of behaviour. Oh, if only I’d had my own camera at the ready . . . . But I swear to you, the squirrel climbed up Hubby’s foot and began to make its way up his leg until he did a version of the St. Vitus Dance and dislodged it. Reader, it was priceless.

“Just imagine if we’d brought bread with us,” I said through gasps of laughter.

“Very funny.”

“We should come back tomorrow with some croissants. Maybe you can get one of them to go for your neck.”

“You’re a regular riot, Alice.”

Once we’d collected ourselves, we left the park and soon found ourselves at the Duke of York’s Column.

“That’s the Duke of York’s Column.”

“Uh uh. Are we anywhere near where you’re taking me yet? Where are we going again?”

“Horse Guards. Where the Duke of York had his offices. And more importantly, where Artie had his. He was married to Freddie.”

“Artie was married to Freddie?”

“No! The Duke of York. But he had a mistress, Mary Anne Clarke, and there was a huge scandal when it came out that she was selling army commissions.”

“The Duke of York had a mistress and a scandal and they gave him a column?”

“Freddie lived at Oatlands. We’re going there.”

“Now?

“No! Oatlands is near Windsor. We’re going to Horse Guards now.”

“What’s at Horse Guards, anyway?”

“Horses. And Guards. Come on, you’re going to love it.”

“Riiight.”

Part Two Comi
ng Soon . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Five

After tearing ourselves away from the Rolls Royce dealership in Berekeley Square, we caught a cab and were soon passing the historic Coach and Horses pub. As we approached the back of the Royal Academy I noticed a long line and asked the driver what was on at the RA that had people lining up as far as the eye could see. “It’s not the RA,” he told me, “They’re all waiting to get into Abercrombie and Fitch.”

Abercrombie and Fitch!? “We’ve got them in every mall in America.”

“Well, this is the only one in London and it just might be the only one in the UK. Next time you’re coming over, you should bring boxes of their stuff with you and sell it on the street. You’d make a mint.”

Not a bad idea.

Our destination was Ye Olde Chesire Cheese in Fleet Street. You may recall from a previous post that on a past trip over, Hubby and I had twice tried to eat there and had found it closed each time. I was determined that he should see it. Why this should be, since the man could care less about British, not to say London, history I can’t say. However, as we pulled up this time, we could see that it was, indeed open. Huzza!

We went into the alley, where the entrance stands.

And through the door to the entry hall.

Directly to the right is a bar room.

I’ll tell you right now that I did not take these pictures, as when we were there it was so crowded that none of these architectural details would have been visible. Not only was it crowded, but there was no host or reception point at all. I flagged down a harried looking waitress in the front room and asked about a table and was told that it would be at least forty-five minutes before a table in her section would be free. There was no waiting list to put one’s name down upon, one should just wander from room to room and look for a free table.

Turning away from her, my mind worked furiously for a way to put this information into more positive terms before passing it on to Hubby.

“What did she say? Did you put our name down? How long is the wait?” he asked in the very next moment. Truly, I had nothing else so I reluctantly went with the truth.

“Forty five minutes, no list, we just have to walk around until we find a free table.”

“Oh, great. With this crowd?”

“Come on, we’ll go look for a table and you can see the place properly. Dr. Johnson used to come here.” Shut up, you idiot. Now is not the time for Dr. Johnson. “And Dickens. Dickens used to come here, too.”

“What? I can’t hear you with all this noise!”

“I said let’s look in this back room here.” Nothing. Not a seat in sight. “Okay, we can try downstairs.”

“What?”

“Watch your head. The ceiling is really low in the stairwell. Really, watch your . . . . . . “

“Christ, I almost hit my head! Who in their right mind makes a ceiling this low?”

Not a free table in sight here either. Not a free stool at the bar. Not an employee who looked as though they gave a toss one way or another whether we stayed or not. The rooms themselves are quite small and, crowded as they were that night, they seemed to shrink as the noise level continued to rise.

“How badly do you want to eat here?” the Hubby yelled into my ear.

“It’s not so much that I’m set on the food,” I replied. “I really wanted you to see the place.”

“I’ve seen it. Can we go now?” Needless to say, we left. And started up Fleet Street back towards Piccadilly. We hadn’t walked very far before I was compelled to enter an alleyway off to our right.

“What are you doing? What’s in there?”

“Come and see. It’s Dr. Johnson’s house.”

If you’ve never been to Gough Square, where the House stands, it’s terrifically atmospheric and even more so at dusk.

I stared round at our surroundings for a few moments. “When a man is tired of London, a man is tired is life, for there is in London all that life can afford.”

“My good man.”

Back on Fleet Street, we walked a bit more and passed the Courts before the Hubby asked the question of the hour. “Where are we going to eat?”

“How hungry are you?”

“I can eat.”

“Yeah, but do you have to eat right now? Or can you wait a bit?”

“How long a bit?”

“I’m thinking we could take a cab back to Burger and Lobster.”

“My girl. I’m thinking I love you.”

So back we went to Clarges Street.

Where I showed Hubby the extensive menu. Everything comes with chips and a salad and everything is twenty pounds. Unless you want to upsize your lobster, but I’m getting ahead of myself . . . .

There were no empty tables at Burger and Lobster, either, but there were two empty seats at the bar. We bellied up, ordered cocktails and waited for our table. And waited. And ordered another round. And chatted with the barman. And drank. And waited some more. Hubby, surprisingly, was uncomplaining. It may have been the convivial atmosphere. Or the three drinks. Reader, a fine time was had by all.

We were finally shown to a table and when we both ordered the lobster, our server asked if we wanted anything larger than the standard pound and a quarter crustacean. Hubby and I both opted for two pounders.

Yes, dinner tasted as delicious as it looked. And we were each served a complimentary dessert due to our long wait. Meal over, we put our coats and scarves back on and ventured out into the brisk night and walked literally around the corner to our hotel. The perfect end to a truly perfect day. Yes, at long last, Day Two is finally over. You’ve been real troopers putting up with my wanderings thus far and I thank you for your patience.

Day Three Coming Soon . . . . . .

A Couple In England – Day Two – Part Four

I returned to the hotel at about four o’clock, laden down with packages and panting for a drink. Opening the door to our room, I found Hubby sitting on the end of the bed, watching a competitive darts match on the telly.

“Hey, Hon,” said he in greeting, “You ever watch this?”

“Darts?”

“Yeah, I’ve been watching it for hours. These guys are great. Did you have fun?”

“I did,” I said, pulling off my boots, “And now I’m going to have rum.”

“Rum? Really? Where?”

“Right here,” I told him, taking the bottle and the six pack of Coke out of the carrier bag.

That earned me a smile from the Hubby. “My girl! I love you. Did you get ice?”

Ice? Really? “We’re in England. Learn to drink it with no ice.”

“I need ice.”

“I hear tell they have some downstairs at the bar. They probably have an ice bucket they can lend you, as well, if you ask nicely.”

“And I’ll get us some real glasses, too. We don’t want to drink out of the bathroom glasses.” Don’t we?

Hubby was gone and back in a flash and I made us two stiff drinks. I watched him watching darts as I sipped the glorious juice of the Gods. Egad, but that drink hit the spot.

“Why are you back so early?” Hubby eventually asked.

“I thought I’d come back here and get you and we could walk down to Apsley House together.” Hubby turned away from the telly long enough to give me the fish eye.

“The only way I’d walk to Apsley House today is if you told me it was seventy-four degrees over there. It’s freezing outside.”

“It is seventy-four degrees at Apsley House. And the sun is perennially shining. And they have a pool out back. With pool boys and cabanas.”

“Riiiiight.”

“Oh, listen . . . . . I stumbled on the most fantastic restaurant in the next street. It’s called Burger and Lobster.” I proceeded to regale the Hubby with all that I’d seen at the restaurant. “We’ll go and look at it when we go to dinner.”

“Where are we going for dinner? Not lobster?”

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

“Oh, not that again!” said Hubby. I couldn’t blame him. On our last trip to London we’d tried twice to eat at the Cheshire Cheese, finding it closed both times. Once after we’d called to make sure they’d be open and, more dreadfully, another time when we’d let the cab go and found ourselves on the deserted streets of the City after business hours with no other cabs in sight. Hubby was not best pleased.

So we eventually toddled our way to the lobster joint, where we pressed our foreheads to the big plate window and watched as the people inside dug into their meals. The joint was packed.

“Boy, they look good,” sighed Hubby. “What do they have at the Cheesey joint?”

“English food. Roast beef, bangers and mash, like that.” Even as I said the words, I knew they couldn’t compete with the scene before our eyes – a restaurant filled with happy, bib wearing people cracking shells and slurping melted butter to their hearts content.

“I guess we should get a cab,” Hubby gamely offered.

“In a bit. There’s something I want you to see first.”

Hubby turned away from the window and sighed. “What is it? Something to do with the Duke? It had better be quick, because it’s freezing.”

“It’s just down the street. You’re going to like this.”

“Riiiiight.”

So off we went to Berkeley Square, which really is just down the street. I intended to show the Hubby something that I knew would be just up his alley and then jump in a cab down to Fleet Street. But you know what they say about good intentions . . . . we’d just entered the Square from Curzon Street when I was overcome with the need to begin pointing out sights of historical significance to the Husband.

“That’s Maggs Brothers over there,” I said, pointing.

“It’s a bookshop. And the building is supposedly the most haunted in London.”

“Uh huh.”

“They sell rare and antiquarian books. They sold a copy of the Gutenberg Bible,” I told him, but received no response. I knew that I should just shut up, but again, I was compelled to go on. “And they sold Napoleon’s penis.”

“Riiiiight.”

“It was said to be Napoleon’s penis, but that was according to his doctor and his valet and you can’t trust anything the valet said. Look
at what he did with the death mask.”

“Death mask?”

“Yeah. You’ll see it at Apsley House. They said it was Napoleon, but now there’s speculation that the mask was taken from the living valet’s face, not the dead Napoleon’s face.”

“My good man.”

“Quite. And over there, where those buildings are, is where Gunter’s stood.”

“I just know you’re going to tell me what Gunter’s is.”

“Was. It’s not there any longer and more’s the pity. They were confectioners, most known for their ices. The ton would pull up in their carriages and the staff would bring out trays of ices so that they could eat them without climbing down. Of course, you could go in and eat, too.” Shut up, I advised myself. Save your breath. He has no idea what the ton was and no idea of the cultural significance of Gunter’s. Or Almack’s. Or Vauxhall Gardens, for that matter.