DATELINE: LONDON

    Okay, so here's what I'd planned for our one full day in London.

    Top off our Oyster cards for travel on London's amazing underground. Ride the Central Line from Lancaster Gate to Bond Street, and walk up to the Wallace Collection. This small (by comparison with the V&A, BM, or National Portrait Gallery) contains a number of masterpieces. One that I'd wanted to see was a suit of armor made for Sir Thomas Sackville by the master craftsman, Jacob Halder, in Henry VIII's Royal Greenwich workshop. Normally, we dash through any museum's collection of armor, but we'd seen a TV special on how such armor was made, and this piece was highlighted as one of only a couple of such masterpieces.

    Sir Thomas probably commissioned it to be worn if he needed to help defend Elizabethan England against invasion by the Spanish Armada in 1588, but since there was none, the armor was not needed. Soon thereafter, such armor became obsolete as more powerful weapons of war were invented. So, this suit of armor was in perfect condition.

Titus

 

    

Other masterpieces we'd admired at the Wallace before and wanted to see again included Rembrandt’s magnificent portrait of his only surviving child, Titus, at about age sixteen. And, of course, our favorite: Brizo, A Shepherd's Dog, by Rosa Bonheur (1822 – 1899). 

Brizo

 

    Then back to Bond Street to catch take the Central Line to St. Paul's Cathedral. Although we'd been by it many times, Bob had never actually been in it, so I thought we'd have a brief tour. I find the place rather cold and barn-like inside, but you have to admire the massive pillars and the dome. . . that famous dome that survived the aerial bombing in World War II as a symbol of Great Briton's resistance.

    From St. Paul's, I wanted to walk to Dr. Johnson's House on Gough Square. I had visited this 300-year-old townhouse 63 years ago, and wanted to see it once more, since Johnson is one of my all-time heroes. It was here that he wrote his essays, poems, and the great Dictionary of the English Language. Here, also, he entertained (with

Johnson's House

gallons of tea) his biographer, James Boswell, and countless other 18^th Century artists and intellectuals.

    From there, I thought we'd catch a bus down the Strand to Trafalgar Square. We might just luck out and arrive in time for a free noon-time concert at St. Martin's in the Field, but in any case, we'd duck into the National Gallery to visit old friends such as Thomas

Gainsborough's Mr. and Mrs. Andrews (1750), which served as one of the models for our own portrait of our first dog, Alex.

    Also, there's Caravaggio's Supper at Emmaus (1601)

  

    And my all-time favorite, Rembrandt’s self portrait, aged 63.  For me, the portrait captures all the hopes and disappointments of anyone's long life. I have a small reproduction of the portrait in my study at home.

    Then we'd take the Bakerloo Line from Charing Cross to Oxford Circus, where we'd switch back to the Central Line to take us back to Lancaster Gate and our hotel for a short nap before heading back in town to see a musical that we'd bought tickets for a couple of months ago. (Lancaster Gate to Oxford Circus; switch to the Bakerloo Line to Piccadilly Circus—the station which is so deep underground that people were safe from the Blitz. From there the theatre is just three blocks up the Strand.

    Everybody's Talking About Jamie, is a feel-good, coming of age musical that champions diversity. Inspired by a true story, it's a winner of three WhatsOnStage Awards including Best New Musical and is nominated for five Olivier Awards. Jamie, a 16-year-old from Sheffield, England, doesn't quite fit in, but he is supported by his brilliant, loving mum and surrounded by friends. He overcomes prejudice, beats the bullies, and steps into the spotlight. There's talk that it may open on Broadway.

    That was my plan for the day. But . . .

    Before we left Tucson, a good friend, who shall remain nameless, gave me a going-away present of a really bad head cold, which I generously shared with Bob. The nearly 24-hour trip from Tucson to London did not help matters, especially since neither of us was able to sleep much, or even doze on the plane. Last night, we slept twelve hours, which I think was a record, and after breakfast at the hotel, which included a buffet-style version of an English Breakfast complete with baked beans, we bundled up for our “Day in London.”

    It had rained overnight, and there was a cold wind whistling past our ears, so even though we each wore four layers of clothes plus hat plus brollie in reserve and pockets packed with tissues, we did not enjoy the short walk to the underground station. Just before we arrive there, Bob said,

    “Was I supposed to bring the voucher for us to pick up the theatre tickets?”

    “Yes.”

    “I forgot it.”

    So, back we went to the hotel. On the way I kept thinking that, like Liza Doolittle, all I wanted was a room somewhere, nice and warm . . . with a comfy bed. That's what we found, and out went my plans for the day, and in their place was a three-and-a-half hour nap!

    We did, however, rouse ourselves in time to catch the show in the evening.