Knowing Looks

During the 13 hour 25 minute flight from Singapore to London Chris and I shared a number of knowing looks. The first came roughly six seconds after settling into our seats when Sam asked, for the first of what seemed like a billion times, “When are we going to be there?” There was another intense stare when the man in front of me reclined his seat within seven seconds of settling into it. A glance shot like a bullet between seats 34A and C when we realised that the coughing lady seated across the aisle was surely tubercular. Each occasion (and there were many) the jolly Scotsman sitting behind us laughed unusually loudly at whatever he was watching on the in-flight entertainment triggered another bewildered stare.

These looks all said one thing, asked one question – Why are we doing this to ourselves? But when we arrived in London our doubts were allayed.

After a night of strangely uninterrupted sleep in our fantastic apartment we decided we would reward Sam for his spectacular behaviour on the aeroplane by catching a double-decker bus into Oxford Circus and visiting Hamley’s, the famous five-storey toy store on Regent Street. Sam finally got his Omnitrix (readers with a boy-child under 10 will know what this is) and an action figure from the same show (Ben 10) called ‘Armadrillo’. Sam was delighted with the whole experience and Chris and I were fascinated, in a politically-correct fashion, when the employee taking care of our purchases was dressed like a gollywog.

Sam and Hamley’s man

Snacking in Carnaby Street

We wandered down Carnaby Street, had morning tea at Pret-a-Manger, shopped at Boots, Waitrose and Waterstones (a few of my favourite stores) and then caught the tube back to Chelsea. What a morning! What a city!

The day was topped off with a visit to the children’s playground in the grounds of St Luke’s Church in Chelsea. Sam had loads of fun on the equipment and Chris and I occupied ourselves by marvelling at the number of nannies (child-minders, not grandmothers) on duty. We seemed to be the only actual parents. With money, it seems, comes a distinct lack of personal contact with one’s children.

A couple of swingers in the playground

Chelsea view from our apartment