My bucket list (of sorts) has changed many times from the original either due to the fact that the things were too hard or I was running out of time. An example of this would be wanting to milk a cow and knocking down a wall instead or indeed replacing watching all the Disney films with a musical marathon because I didn’t want to watch some of the new monstrosities that Disney studios is producing – Home on the Range or Cars 2 anyone?
Having a fish pedicure was alas one of the things I was looking forward to on the list yet it was not meant to be and I have therefore decided to scrap it in favour of a more challenging concept. Namely to successfully manoeuvre myself round London, hopefully staying in one piece and blogging about my adventure to my friends and strangers alike.
You may think that is not a tall order, but there my friend, you are sorely mistaken. As I hope the events of the day demonstrate.
You may think that is not a tall order, but there my friend, you are sorely mistaken. As I hope the events of the day demonstrate.
Wakey wakey rise and shine it’s 6am on a beautiful, fresh December morning and you know that you don’t want to miss a second lying around in bed. Well actually I do, but that’s beside the point, there’s places to go and people to see, destination; The Fan Museum.
For anyone unlucky enough to come into contact with me over the past few weeks (or even months) knows I am doing my dissertation on fans (hand fans that is, not electric fans…) I have bored many people with a lecture or two on fans and their language and as you can possibly imagine I’m just slightly excited to be going to have a nosey round their archives at the fan museum, finding out more and potentially able to pad out my lectures.
The first mishap of the day happened even before I had left the city. I had lost my ticket… I still have the receipt and the seating reservation, but the grumpy ticket man was having none of it. Meaning having to fork out for a new ticket. Cooooooooool. Apparently if you travel before 8:43 it counts as peak tariff, but as I have to be in Greenwich for 11 o’ clock, the sooner I travel, the better (leaving more time to get lost in actual London). I really shouldn’t have worn mascara.
The train was, of course, delayed somewhat but at least I got the right one this time. The tube was surprisingly well behaved, well that was until I had to change to the Dockland light railway. As both trains convened at Canary Warf you would think that I would just have to go to a different part of the station. Au contraie mon amie, it appears that one had to cross a shopping mall to get to the DLR station but I of course did not know this at the time. Leading me to invent a new game…OOOH.
Follow the Builder was the name of said game and it involved pretty much what it says on the tin. My problems were not over as I couldn’t actually remember where I was going. In my haste to recall which tubes to get (the brown one and then the grey one) I had forgotten to familiarise myself with what happens next.
By some Christmas miracle I managed to arrive at the fan museum only 10 minutes late. A large chunk of my dissertation would focus on the language of the fan but apparently, according to Helene Alexander (who owns the museum and its collection) the fan language is utter RUBBISH – well there goes that idea then. For the next two hours I was prithee to look at the various 18th century fans in the collection and let me tell you, there are lots! From commemorative fans, marking the birth and marriage of George IV and recovery of George III, educational fans, anyone for a History lesson? As well as a range of entertainment such as conundrums and oracles.
I thought I was going to be at the museum for the majority of the day, not just a few hours and thus had booked the return train for 8pm, leaving a good 6 hours to kill. Oh woe is me, however will I amuse myself? Maybe a trip down Oxford Street to ponder the meaning of life will suffice. As the meaning of life is 42 I thought this would be a good place to start. Turns out…it’s a restaurant (the no. 42 on New Oxford Street is).
However, before any deep meaningful thought could occur, I had to find my way out of Greenwich. One would think that the return journey would be easier than the outward trip. Alas, my dears, this is not the case as this time I had no builders to follow. Dang.
With a lack of guidance it did not take me long to get hopelessly lost, cue wandering aimlessly up and down the Thames for ages. As you may recall, if you haven’t fallen asleep yet, I mentioned earlier that I had to go through a mall to get to the DLR station. I decided to use this logic in reverse, yet going up one escalator too many I found myself in a sport psychiatrist. Quickly, going back downstairs, I ended up in an office block. What kind of shopping centre is this?!
As you are able to read this entry, it is safe to assume that I got out of that weird, strange building and managed to find my way to Oxford Street. The shops welcomed me with open arms, well they would have done if shops had arms. A lot of caffeine and trying shoes on later, it was time to return to Marmite Land (that’s Paddington to you and me)
The End!
