Anarchy in the UK: Part 2: Wren and Stimpy

After wandering through Dr. Johnson’s House, we walked back out, past James Boswell’s House. Boswell is famous for little more than writing the biography of Johnson, although I get him confused with Bosley from Charlie's Angels. Corrected, I then mused on the relationship between Boswell and Johnson, given that their houses were so close together and they seemed rather inseparable. (Actually, it’s more likely that Boswell was more of a literary hanger-on.) Anyway, we walked back to Ludgate Hill and over to St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Christopher Wren-designed edifice that rivals only St. Peter’s in Rome. Actually, St. Paul’s is the fifth cathedral (the first having dated to C.E. 604) to have stood in that spot; its predecessor was destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666.

We immediately headed down to the basement crypt, as that’s where the lavatories were (leading me to coin the euphemism for the week: “gotta go to the crypt”). The crypt also features the delightfully named Crypt Cafe, and, more seriously, monuments to more than 300 British military heroes, including Wellington (who was able to develop Beef Wellington before the French could perfect the Napoleon—see Love and Death) and Horatio Nelson. And, needless to say, Christopher Wren’s memorial is down there, as well it should be.

We then headed up many many stairs to the Whispering Gallery, a circular walkway around the base of one of the cathedral domes. It is so-called because it is said that if you whisper to the wall, the sound will carry clear across to the opposite side. I was dubious, and with luck some of my comments did not carry. Up more steps is the Stone Gallery, a parapet around the outside of the dome that affords a wonderful view of London. Up a further 520 spiral steps (not for the weak of lung) is the Golden Gallery—which provides an even better view. There is one spot on the staircase that has a very low overhang; there is a sign that reads “Mind your head.” I was amused by the sign, stopped to take a picture of it, then smashed my head anyway. Doh!
One more trip to the crypt, and we were on our way. We walked back down Ludgate Hill, which turns into Fleet Street (no sign of the Demon Barber, although from my experience, the “demon barber” has decidedly relocated to the States, the Wilton Mall to be exact...). We turned a corner and walked past the Old Bailey, aka the Central Criminal Court. We stopped in The Viaduct Pub across the street for a pint (Steven chose it from the "Why a duck?" routine in the Marx Brothers film The Cocoanuts--don't ask). I had learned my lesson about “light” beer but I was also in for a new lesson: you don’t tip bartenders in London. Not that I minded, I just don’t like to be thought of as a cheap bastard.

Anyway, we then grabbed a city bus to Piccadilly Circus (with thoughts of the Jethro Tull song, “Mother Goose”: “And a foreign student said to me/Was it really true/There are elephants and lions, too/In Piccadilly Circus”). There are many “circuses” in London—the name simply comes from the Latin word circus, or “circle,” and refers to any circular open space at a street junction. As for “Piccadilly,” the name dates back to 1626 and comes from Pickadilly Hall, a house belonging to Robert Baker, a tailor famous for selling piccadills, a type of collar.

Anyway, Piccadilly Circus today is festooned with neon billboards and signage and is rather like Times Square, though still not yet Disney-fied. One notable point of interest is the Shaftesbury Monument Memorial Fountain, built in 1892-1893 to commemorate Victorian politician and philanthropist Lord Shaftesbury. The fountain is topped by Alfred Gilbert's statue, variously called “The Angel of Christian Charity” or, more popularly (though erroneously), "Eros" (after the Greek God of Love). Actually, the statue was supposed to represent Eros' twin Anteros (everyone gets twins confused...). The statue was the first in the world to be cast in aluminum (or, in Britain, “aluminium”) and is nude, which caused a bit of a stir at the time of its erection, but the public quickly warmed to it, apparently.
Piccadilly is also home to several bookstores—including Foyle’s, which is a London institution (and rightly so). (When Steven and I lived in New York City contemporaneously, we used to like to visit bookstores and we got to do this again.) We then walked over to Leicester Square, famous...well, I’m not sure why it’s famous, but it is where all the movie cinemas are and where London premieres tend to take place. It's really not all that exciting, except as a place to people-watch, although it is pretty much the gateway to Soho, named, not for being “South of Houston” as in New York, but for the hunting call (“Soho!”) used during 17th-century fox hunts. I also found Wardour Street, which, according to a song by The Jam, had an A bomb in it.

By this time, it was getting on 5:00 and Steven had to pick up his car (which was in for inspection) before the car place closed at half five, so we cut short our perambulations for the day. I decided not to take photographs of the VW dealership.

And thus ends Monday. To be continued...