Notes From An Inebriated Cornishwoman

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Thursday 27th November
"The British Rail Sandwich"
...although I suppose it's the Network Rail sandwich these days isn't it. Anyway. Get up at oh-Christ-hundred hours and leave the house in the dark, wondering why, however little I pack, my bag always seems to weigh the same. Approximately three minutes down the road am grateful for the last minute decision to add the extra weight of an umbrella, as the heavens open on me. Much more of this and the only thing this coat'll be good for is washing car windows.

There's an hour's wait at Truro, and I pass the time bankrupting myself by buying a sandwich, small black coffee and a cinnamon whirl. They've got a new toy in the cafe and after selecting my cake from the - open to the elements - rack, she pops it into a polythene bag and heat-seals it shut. The only object of this, as far as I can see, is to ensure I then can't get into it. Because if it was to keep them fresh, they'd seal all the cakes before putting them on display, wouldn’t they. Oh no, wait, that would be too logical.

Three and a half hours to Bath, happily in the quiet carriage with two seats to myself. Just out of Tiverton, see a buzzard having a bath on a big puddle in the middle of a field. Then at Bristol, a guard wheeling along a box marked "Plymouth Lost Property." Very lost, apparently.

Arriving anywhere by train never really gives you the best first impression. You slink in through the tradesman's entrance, the graffiti-ed industrial arse end, then fetch up on a main road, dusty and dirty and choked with fumes and a snarl of traffic. Bath’s no different. However, as soon as I'd walked up to the centre (having memorised the map), things were better. No traffic, as the Christmas market was in full swing, and the buildings are impressive, and it’s cleaner.

Now, I should have had a thinkpink20 at this point, but she was sadly too ill to come (before you ask, both sets of innuendo fully intended yes). *hugs her*

Having rejected the first pub I came to on the grounds of too many slot machines and the spelling of 'student nite', I eventually discovered The Crystal Palace. It was packed, but there was one table free. I sat down and stripped off about 60 layers. Looking up, amongst all the bits and pieces on the wall was a plaque - 'Police Public Call Box.' This'll do, I thought.

Had a pint of Twelfth Night (bit dark and portery, but drinkable. That'll teach me to randomly point at pumps) and a plate of Bellringers' Ale sausages (three fine fat porky specimens) with spring onion mash and red cabbage with onion gravy.

Walk back out into the Christmas market - which is mainly overpriced decorations and German sausage stalls - the air redolent with the smell of mulled wine and the Abbey bells ringing Silent Night.

Make my way to the guesthouse where the owner is a hyperactive French pixie who informs me she leaves for Vienna immediately. I appear to have wandered into a spy novel. (Earlier I found a key on the wall by the river. Am wondering if I'd picked it up, if I would have found the keyhole it fitted by now).

I am told if I need anything, I should ring the bell for Sergio (maybe it's not a spy novel after all). Sergio pops his head out of the kitchen at this point, grins at me, and disappears again.

Also, if I want a Full English breakfast, that’ll be an extra three quid. Didn’t say that on the website, did you mush? And no, apparently I can’t pay for it at the same time as I pay for the room. Eh?

My room is on the second floor – twin beds, en suite and at the back of the building – and overlooks the biggest building site you ever saw. It’s for a new shopping centre, and even through double glazing the noise is considerably intrusive. I came on holiday to get away from construction workers…

Having shed my baggage I venture out again to explore the shops and market. I confess, I’m not really good at shopping, especially on my own. I’ve no interest in clothes, or shoes, or expensive tat. The closest I come to a purchase is a bag of preserved fruit (kind’ve Christmas jumbo-pot-pourri) but somehow manage to restrain myself. I also have to remember that anything I do buy, I’ll then have to lug round London as well. In the end, I buy an arty card of Glastonbury Tor, and the Times and the Telegraph, for the crosswords.

Wander up through the streets and find The Circus and The Crescent. If you like Georgian architecture, it’s well impressive. If it leaves you largely cold – well, it’s some big houses in a curve. I take a few photos and walk back into town. Give me a decent bit of timber framing any day…

Decide it’s time for a cup of tea, and end up in Starbucks as all the best places are crammed full. Consider the Pump Rooms, but it’s £8 per head for tea. Not worth it on my own, I think. Maybe tomorrow, for coffee. Starbucks provide me with a decent mug of tea anyway, and also the chance to sit near a baby with a rattle that’s decided it’ll be amusing to bang it constantly on the table, and a mother that’s taking no notice. If she doesn’t take it away soon, she’s going to find it inserted up her. Sideways.

Afterwards, I discover an indoor market across the road, and one of the best second hand bookstalls I’ve ever seen. Now here I really could shop for hours. Have to watch the weight of the bag though, and settle on a Dirk Pitt I haven’t read before.

It’s dark by now, and starting to rain. I buy a burger in the Christmas Market because of the tempting smell. Dear Bath Organic Farms, please note – charging £3 for a lukewarm burger and burnt onions is fucking outrageous. Just so you know…

Back to the guesthouse for a rest. Can’t make the TV work, so resort to the crosswords and writing. Half six now, and the building site’s still going strong. Laying concrete in the pouring rain. Serves ‘em right.


Friday 28th November
"24 Hours In Bath – Enough To Turn A Girl Wrinkly"
Well, the builders worked till 11pm, left the generators and halogen lights running all night, then started up again at 7am. Not the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.

Breakfast was good though, served by smiley Sergio, although the favourable impression was slightly dampened by the discovery he had a hairy arse (what? there was a low cupboard.).

The other two couples in the room complained that the tea and coffee had run out. This seemed faintly surprising, as I’d just had some coffee and it didn’t feel empty. Turns out they were all incapable of working out that you had to push the button in to open the spout.

Headed out again to go round the Baths – they didn’t open until 9.30 so passed the time looking round the Abbey.

In the Roman Baths, there was a class of small children waiting to go round, but happily I got in ahead of them – the first person in, and I had the place to myself. I’d somehow forgotten that it was a hot spring, and it was a very cold morning – so the whole place was shrouded in steam and eerily quiet. Statues loomed out of the mist and the only sound was the water.

I ignored the audio-tour thing – is it only me that hates them? To make matters worse it was narrated by Bill Bloody Bryson, who irritates the tits off me. Much more magical to wander quietly through the rooms and just feel the place. Very easy on a morning like this to remember it’s a holy spring, underneath it all.

Afterwards, I ventured into the Pump Rooms. Luckily only had to wait a few minutes for a table – the people after me were told they’d have to wait 20, and when I came out the queue was stretching right outside and into the Baths next door!

The table I was given was right up the front near the musicians – violin, cello and piano – and the place was all done out for Christmas, with three huge trees up on the gallery. I had The Pump Room Breakfast – freshly squeezed orange juice, a pot of tea, and a basket of warm pastries. Which were nice, but very flaky and covered in icing sugar, as was everything else in a wide radius after a few minutes.

Made my way back to the station around midday – everywhere still shrouded in mist and very cold. On the way to Paddington, while stopped at Chippenham, we had a huge steam train – The Nunney Castle – puff past the window in the opposite direction.

Made Paddington at around 2.45 – intended to head for the British Museum and leave my bag there, but the tube got held up at Bond Street, so I got off and decided to walk down Oxford Street. Starting to rain, sadly, although an expertly wielded umbrella does keep the worst of the crowds at bay.

Spent a while in the British Museum – Egyptian Hall and British Celtic mainly – then decided I was hot and knackered and while culture was all well and good I could be in the pub. So decamped to the Museum Tavern to wait for astrolabus with a pint of Doom Bar. Well, obviously it was more than ‘a’ pint, by the time we’d finished…later on moved from there to The Princess Louise (nice pub, crap beer) and then back to Wood Green. Finally got to bed at about half 2, after watching The Curse of Fenric.


Saturday 29th November
"Six Green Bottles…"
Breakfast in the Café Amore. astrolabus makes a striking entrance by flinging open the door only to discover it has no resistance whatsoever, sending it crashing into the table of two irate old men. Er, morning chaps. Anyway, decent enough breakfast, other than the stony cold quality of the beans.

Back to watch Robots Of Death, before it was time for me to head down to Hammersmith. Got to tinselworm’s about 3pm, joined shortly afterwards by sacred_sarcasm and beckstar2, whereupon we proceeded to drink the Co-Op out of Pinot Grigio, eat a very nice chilli made by tinselworm, and chomp our way through the European junk food mountain, while listening to 80’s hits radio. What could be better?


Sunday 30th November
"Fuck me – a singing tree"
beckstar2 and sacred_sarcasm head off home, and tinselworm and I go for breakfast in the posh caff, before venturing out into London. Bus it to Piccadilly, then get the tube to Baker Street and go to the Sherlock Holmes Museum. £3.50 for a bookmark! (yes, I am still indignant about that) Still, it was only £6 to go in, so can’t complain. Much.

There was a fairly hacked off looking ‘policeman’ on the door, who bore a distinct resemblance to Bill Nighy. He would give people a deerstalker and pipe to have their photo taken with. We watched in faint disgust as two people merrily put the pipe straight in their mouth and posed. Mmmn, no germs there, no.

It’s a lovely little place, all done out like Holmes and Watson’s rooms, complete with Persian slipper, VR in bullet holes on the wall, hollowed out books with guns in, sinister voodoo fetishes…oh, and a lot of dodgy mannequins. And Sherlock’s toilet, which I think we were both more amused by than anything. Not that it was inherently funny, it’s just – not something you tend to think of.

Went back to a pub in Piccadilly for lunch, which was quite a nice place but the service left a lot to be desired. My burger was still mooing (although they did give me a refund) and tinselworm had to wait until she’d almost finished her scampi for the tartare sauce to arrive. Which then turned out to be horseradish. Suppose it could have been worse…

Went to a different pub, the White Horse on Rupert Street, where a half of bitter (very good Sam Smiths, the Princess Louise take note) and a soda water came to less than a pound!

Then on to the Haagan Daaz café on Leicester Square, where I had a berry – thing. Strawberry ice cream, raspberry sorbet, lemonade and crushed ice. Just the thing for a cold November evening!

After a bit of queuing at the Comedy Store, to our delight we got in! It was the Comedy Store Players – Paul Merton, Richard Vranch, Lee Mullarkey, Lee Simpson, and two others who I’ve forgotten the names of. Sorry lads. Anyway, 2 hours of pant-wettingly funny improv. Plus! During the interval Richard Vranch walked right past me (I was sat on the end of a row) and gazed looked straight into my eyes. So I smiled soppily at him. (Should have gone for the lunge, dammit).

On the way back we were lucky enough to get a bus straight away, and went home to catch up on Top Gear.

All in all, a damn fine weekend!