Time to backtrack, and other railway puns. I chooffed off to Merrie England a month ago, with one purpose – the bi-annual P.G. Wodehouse Society (UK) formal dinner, a few hours communing with like spirits and hearing Plum’s old songs again.
It was a soul-satisfying bash, again in the stately hall (right) of Gray’s Inn, one of the Inns of Court that have educated England’s barristers for centuries. Ivor Hele’s grand portrait of Sir Robert Menzies still graces the reception room, so as I had five years previously at my first society dinner, I raised a glass to Australia’s greatest Prime Minister (no correspondence will be entered into).
The night’s entertainment put together by Tony Ring (as it has been since 2000) consisted of songs from the 1918 Broadway hit Oh, Lady! Lady! – lyrics by P.G. Wodehouse, music by Jerome Kern and book by Guy Bolton, the trio who remade the American musical. Regrettably, it is still not well known among the great unwashed that the creator of Jeeves had a Broadway and West End career from 1913 into the 1930s that included lyrics for such shows as Anything Goes and Showboat. 
Performers at the dinner included Plum’s step great grandson and daughter (i.e. the grandchildren of his adopted daughter, Leonora), Hal and Lara Cazalet, both professional singers and actors (right to left, of course).
To pinch a line from a non-Wodehouse show, it was a grand night for singing, and we did.
CRYPTIC ENCOUNTERS
Next day a few of us met up for and early lunch. It was Friday the 13th, so where else would be suitable but a church crypt – this one was that of St Martin in the Fields, off Trafalgar Square. It’s basically a cafeteria offering a little relief (but not much) from the high prices prevailing above.
I didn’t know anything about dining down under at the church but I did know about the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, famous for its music under the baton of Sir Neville Marriner. So when I saw there was a lunchtime concert upstairs, I unbelted the asking price and entered, without sighting the program but confident I could soothe my aching feet with a little Mozart or maybe Bach. Wrong. Turned out the concert was of Indian music, on sitar and drums. The Indians in the audience seemed enthusiastic about it but I’m afraid my claim to be a world citizen did suffer a setback. Anyway it was three-quarters of an hour in which I could coax my plates back to life for the hobble through Covent Garden to my hotel at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
I had chosen this particular hotel because it was within walking distance of Gray’s Inn. The day after checking in I put my then perfectly fine feet to work finding the way to Gray’s Inn so I wouldn’t spend time the next night wandering around looking for the joint, even though society chairman Tim Andrews had thoughtfully provided a map with the dinner documentation. Found it – woo, hoo! But not before marching fruitlessly up and down Gray’s Inn Road. The entrance to Gray’s Inn, if you pay attention to the map, fool, is actually in High Holborn. I remembered then that five years ago when I attended this event my taxi driver had got me there by driving in an exit-only. It was closed off this time.
After my self-made drama, I was standing in Gray’s Inn Road (no, not the actual roadway) when a man approached me. He spoke Spanish – that much I could discern – and between us we figured out he wanted to know which way to the station, por favor. Um, which station? This was beyond both of us so I pointed him up Gray’s Inn Road towards King’s Cross and St Pancras where I wanted to go. Gracias, senor, and he shuffled off. I knew Barcelona was farther away, but not much farther. I looked for a bus, and in due course one came along.
BY BUS AND TUBE
The destination board said Paddington – so why not? I wanted to go see Isambard Kingdom Brunel there anyway. I thought it would swing left at King’s Cross, up Euston Road, but no it went for a milk run around the back of St Pancras through Camden Town and I ended up at my 1970s stamping ground of the Hampstead Heath village. Still the same after all these years – except the Everyman cinema, which shows classic films, now has a café attached named . . . Spielburger.
I took the Tube back to St Pancras International station, possibly my favorite place in all of London, and communed with Sir John (Betjeman, you ignoramuses) before toasting him at the champagne bar watching Eurostar come and go. It was probably the most expensive sausage roll I’ve ever eaten. BTW, if in London and you do what I did on the Tube, tap and go with your debit card, you will get a nasty little surprise when the accounts come in. The Tube these days is horrendously expensive. I think I should have investigated season tickets, or such like.
A major attraction at St P, apart from the trains, is the public pianos – two of them, which I have often seen played brilliantly on YouTube by a fellow named Brendan Kavanagh and a young Arsenal supporter named Cole Lam. Anyway, the black man in my pic was playing along merrily when, as I turned away, the two policemen in the background moved him on, possibly for soliciting a few coins. But when I returned after my lunch he was still there, dancing around and applauding the white man who was playing a boogie-woogie version of God Save the King.
ENGLAND, THEIR ENGLAND
I never thought Australia would ever play England at Wembley – even less that 80,000 people would turn out to watch in the cold and wet. Nor that I would be there to see it. I was, though. Australia played creditably and had a few chances to win before losing only 1-0 to what was admittedly an England reserve team.
One day, I was enjoying this busking group at Covent Garden when accosted by a chap rattling the tin for them. I fed the beast and he quickly realised I was a Man from Down Under. “I’ve been studying your culture,” said he. Neighbours, I thought. No: “I’ve been watching Kath and Kim – noice.” And he wished me an effluent day. Aaagh!
My silent revenge is next door in the London Transport Museum, where Metroland is commemorated. These are the London suburbs developed by the company that extended the Metropolitan underground line out into the country. You well read types will recall that John Betjeman celebrated Metroland in verse and Evelyn Waugh created Margot, Lady Metroland. Of course you do.
Then in pursuit of a pal’s fishy ancestors I took a trip out to Harwich in East Anglia (courtesy of a couple of other close friends), on the very day they were having a sea shanties festival. Pubs full of people splicin’ the mainbrace, singing gutturally and talking like pirates.
THE NON-VISA . . . BUT SECURE
The next day I took my sore feet and stiff carcase off to Canada – and you’ve seen the result of that in my previous post. Except for one thing: I had nasty surprise on presenting at the Air Canada check-in at Heathrow. Where’s your visa? What visa – I’m Australian, you’re Canadian, one of us; don’t need a visa, didn’t need one last time I was there, in 2005? As of 2016, you do. Well, they call it an Electronic Travel Authorization – not a visa, except if you want to fly into Canada (not drive, bus, sail, walk, crawl, anything but fly) you must have one. It’s a visa. I panicked, of course – my whole trip was being shunted on to a siding. My inherent caution in arriving for international flights with lots of time to spare kicked in, and I calmed a little. Then a competent young woman took me in hand, guided me through the application on my phone and within half an hour I had my eTA, was checked in, passed security and wandering through the shops to the boarding gate. A note to my travel agent (who actually did a tremendous job, apart from not warning me about the eTA) followed, but she hasn’t responded.
Ah security – that was another yellow light on my track. I had bought my wife some perfume in London and it came in a nice, sealed presentation pack. Something told me I should put it in my carry-on bag, not my suitcase. One of my few wise actions. While I was desperately trying to hold my pants up (security demands you remove your belt) my bag was diverted to a black-uniformed chappie. Do you have perfume in here? Yes. This it, taking out the presentation pack? Hmmm, under 100ml. OK. Can I unpack it? Don’t say no. Off came the cellophane sealer, the box opened up and the bottle subjected to some sort of machine check. All right, pass. Can I have my belt while I repack my bag? OK, said he, almost grinning at this sad old man clutching at his falling trews. Then, as I knew I would, I had to go through the whole charade again 10 days later when I presented in Vancouver for my flight home. The perfume survived, my wife was happy, and on the 21st day I rested.
QUICKIES
Just a couple of quickies, before I leave you in peace. In Canada, the home of woke, where no one, absolutely no one, is to be offended or made to feel unsafe, I came across the pictured sign on a watering point in Toronto’s old railway yards, now Roundhouse Park – and I saw a similar sign later, somewhere up the street, which means it wasn’t a joke. The irony-free zone seems to have crept north.
Then at Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, on Vancouver Island – the mob that takes people whale-watching from there calls itself Prince of Whales.
O Canada!
The Traveller 