Tuesday, December 13, 2011
A cold and blustery Sunday afternoon in London . Carols in Westminster Abbey . I get a seat next to David Livingstone or more precisely his tomb . The inscription : " His body carried home across land and sea by loving hands " makes me wonder what state it must have been in by the time it got here from the Limpopo. Love indeed .
Outside parliament two hundred ever so slightly tipsy American pharmaceutical salesmen . All of them dressed up as identical Father Christmases . The Police look on with studied indifference . Having taken photos of Big Ben the salesmen head off in a convoy of double decker buses. The slurred sound of ' Do you hear what I hear ? ' filling the evening air .
An early dinner with serious Manhattanites in dark suits . Thirty minutes trying to interpret the complicated and subtle before the coffee is served . The New Yorkers have brought their wives with them . The lady opposite me a dead ringer for the actress in that 1960's series about a wiggely nosed witch married to an advertising executive .
Wilf has been busy. A trip to the Sunday bread market, slivers of lip smackingly tasty trout for lunch followed by a long slow walk down by the river . He sleeps solidly through until he's loaded into the back of the car and is brought to the airport to meet me. Today we shall go to choose the Christmas tree. For Wilf a once a year chance to christen tree trunks at the garden centre .