First of all, why do hotels insists on bringing your toast out with the breakfast? I don't know a single person who eats their toast at the same time. Do what you like in the privacy of your own home, but the toast in a hotel breakfast is a dessert. Once you've polished off the fry-up you can have the toast with jam or marmalade, so it needs to be hot, so it needs bringing out later. The breakfast tasted nice enough, but I was disappointed that what I thought was a sample of what was to come actually turned out to be the breakfast.
Our first point of call today was yet another Bowie exhibition. This time it was a collection of paintings inspired by the great man, taking place on New Bond Street at The Opera Gallery, (actually a gallery shop). Although there were only a few things to see, they were the most remarkable few things.
To the BBC next, or rather Broadcasting House. I left a message for the controller of BBC 6 Music to give me a call as I would be in London until ten o'clock, but I doubt it was even passed on. The receptionist looked as if he had never heard of The Sunday Alternative, which was a bit embarrassing, for him. I noticed it last time we were in London but the photo didn't come out very well so I wanted to do it again. Opposite Broadcasting House is All Souls Church, and it was on these steps that the line up photograph was taken to launch Radio One.
As a big lover of the superior medium, I couldn't resist.
I started to wish that I had taken more pictures when I lived here the first time around in the mid-1990s, as so much has changed that I have trouble placing anything. Piccadilly Circus for example, the light hoardings are now video screens rather than the famous neon lights. I'm sure that if I look online, I'll be able to find a picture of Piccadilly Circus every time they changed one of the advertising contracts. The only thing that sticks rigidly in my memory is Tower Records, which is where I foolishly bought into the short lived Laser-disc revolution. There are so many cosmetic changes made that I hope that someone has documented it, even the silly little things like the big line of public phones in Piccadilly Circus tube station, useless now one imagines but a snapshot of the past.
Talking of phone boxes, we had a little lunchtime coffee on Heddon Street again, as we had unfinished business to attend to. On Sunday night there were too many people about, thankfully there wasn't this time. It was lovely to see that the tradition of writing David Bowie graffiti is still going strong, although I expect there are regular clean ups. I hope that Westminster Council employ someone to regularly take photographs before any cleaning operation takes place, if they don't, then I'll apply for that job.
It is a beautiful thing to see that David Bowie has such an effect on people, I made a mental note to make some Moonage Daydream fliers to leave in the phone box next time I'm down. While we were having our coffee I posted the phone number of the box on Facebook (remember Facebook? It's making an inexplicable comeback) and Twitter inviting someone to ring at 1pm sharp with a Bowie question. I ran out of patience, (and after all we were by this time hanging around an alleyway outside a phone box and I didn't want people thinking we were drug dealers) at about five to and left. It gave me an idea though. A regular podcast in which I talk about Bowie with the first person who phones up. I would need some sort of little microphone to pick up the caller's voice in the earpiece, but apart from that it's a piece of cake and could either be done using a digital Dictaphone or a small camcorder. Also, we would need to be down in That London more often.
It was a hot day, so we popped in to a shop and bought sandwiches, crisps, pop, and various other bits, and headed for a picnic in Regents Park. Although I'm not a great lover of spending time in the countryside, I do love an inner city park, and it's weird to think how many That London has. It would be quite easy to forget you're in the hustle and bustle of the capital city when you're laying on the warm grass with your shoes and socks off, reading the papers and generally having a rest.
Mandi doesn't really enjoy having to accompany me on flights of comedy, but she did come along to help me set up a gag that I thought about doing on Sunday when we arrived in That London. First of all I needed a prop. There wasn't a fruit shop around to buy a lemon, (there is one on Regent Street but according to their shop display, they only sell apples, see what I did?), which was to be the essential part of the joke. We were at 221 Baker Street, the home of fictional detective Sherlock Holmes and I wanted to do a silly picture caption.
I borrowed the lemon from a pub a few doors down, and I am glad that the bar staff all laughed along. I am going to assume that they were laughing with me rather than at me. Maybe they keep a box of special lemons for this reason, because everyone wants to do the "lemon entry my dear Watson" picture, and to them I was just another pain in the arse tourist.
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