Sunday, August 28, 2011
London
Who’d’ve thunk it? When I awoke this morning, all set to attend Sunday service in a historic Christopher Wren chapel in Chelsea, how could I have known that I would be occupying a seat right opposite Baroness Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister of Great Britain? And yet, that was exactly what happened! I’m still beside myself with awe! At 86, she still carries that imperious air that would have been more appropriate half a century ago in the colonies than it was in the small, intimate friendly space of a chapel. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Virgin Atlantic Offers a Gift:
My day began with the bleak news from Virgin Atlantic that the earliest confirmed seat available to me was a week away–next Sunday. When I recovered from the shock of being stuck in London for another week, I put my Positive Thinking Hat on and figured that if the weather gods had conspired to gift me a bonus week in my favorite city, well…who was I to complain? So on I marched towards what turned out to be a glorious day, weather-wise. After breakfast, I hopped on the bus to Chelsea while most of London was having a lazy lie-in on August Bank Holiday Weekend.
Browsing Through Chelsea:
Because I had arrived too early for morning service at the Chapel of Chelsea Royal Hospital, I browsed through my favorite interior design stores on Pimlico Road (Linley was closed for renovation but Joanna Wood is having a sale!). I thought of the newly-wed Clintons, Bill and Hilary, who many moons ago, on their honeymoon, while browsing in similar fashion through Chelsea, on a similar deserted morning, had so fallen in love with the hamlet that they’d decided then and there that if they ever had a daughter, they would name her after one of London’s poshest areas. Well…the rest is history.
The Chelsea Pensioners’ Parade:
By and by, I did make my way to the grand green precincts of the Royal Hospital whose grounds boast the work of some of Britain’s best-known architects (Christopher Wren designed the main buildings and chapel and John Soane designed the stable blocks). I was headed for the 11 am service but before it begins, there is the ceremonial Sunday Morning Parade that starts at 10.30 (another one of London’s most closely-guarded secrets, unknown to the run-of-the-mill tourist). I positioned myself on the lawn to get the best pictures. Not a lot of people were present to watch an old British custom that involves the Inspection of the Pensioners (retired army personnel) by their Sergeant Major. At 10.30, the many pensioners who were dotted around the premises smartly attired in their red jackets, black tricorn hats, white gloves and medals tinkling on their lapels, rose to attention and took their positions on the main lawns as a drummer kept up a marching tattoo. The sergeant major in black uniform with an elaborately white feathered helmet barked orders at the troops who then were inspected individually. Each one gave him their names and rank. The ritual lasted about 15 minutes and had all the pomp and ceremony at which the British usually excel. When a whistle blew to end it, the pensioners trooped back under Wren’s giant columns and all but disappeared. Only the few female pensioners (who raised many an eyebrow when they joined the retirement community a couple of years ago) entered the chapel and stayed for the entire service.
That’s when Lady Thatcher walked–or rather limped–in. With the assistance of a walking stick and the company of an equally imperious companion (slim, straight-backed, poker-faced–think Diana Rigg playing Miss Danvers in Rebecca), she slid slowly into her seat wearing a vivid green coat-dress, a string of pearls, matching button ear-rings and a pearl brooch. I noticed that although she participated in the service, she did not respond verbally at all until it came time to sing God Save the Queen–and then she was active! Although she is now visibly only a shadow of the Iron Lady we well remember, there is no mistaking her sharp profile and the sweetness of her smile–which I saw when she placed her offering in the circulating bag. I gathered later that it is four weeks since she has felt well enough to attend service. She is a regular worshipper in this chapel and, in recognition of her patronage, has the Margaret Thatcher Infirmary in the grounds named after her.
The service was superb. As always, you cannot touch Anglican clergy for the quality of their homilies and this one, by Chaplain Dick Whittington (yes, that is really his name!) who as seen active combat himself, was inspiring–the sort of homily that makes me wonder if the preacher has me in mind when he is delivering it. Great singing from a wonderful choir, great playing from a wonderful organist, great reading from a wonderful Lector–I mean everything was just perfect. The Wren mahogany altar was richly carved with a splendid ceiling fresco by a father-son team of Italian artists (one did bodies well, the other did good faces!) but their names eluded me as the tour guide pensioner called Tom (who had befriended me before the parade) could not remember it!
As soon as I’d entered the chapel, I spied Jane, the lawyer from Yorkshire who had combined a meeting in London (or T’Smoke, as she calls it), to meet me. We’ve been Twitter friends for about a year. Her mother is an Anglo-Indian and given our common background and my current research, she was keen to meet me. Well, there she was, as she had hoped, in the chapel in time for service. We instantly recognized each other and sat together through the service.
A Private Tour of Chelsea Royal Hospital Grounds:
When it was done, we trooped out and there was Tom Mullaney, a pensioner who had offered to give me a private tour of the premises. I introduced him to Jane and off we went from one lovely quadrangle to the next and to Soane’s stable block–each brilliantly gilded in the sunshine. At the mess, Tom offered to buy us both a drink because “he was dying for a pint”. Jane, who was driving opted for OJ, I had a coffee and in the company of a hearty lot of pensioners and their family members or friends (the premises are not open to the public), we found out a bit about Tom. After the parade, pensioners are expected to change out of their red jackets and into pale blue shorts with navy blue pants–a more casual form of dress and that was how Tom was garbed. At the end of our time together, he gave me his very stylish buisness card and urged me to give him a call to schedule another complete tour later inthe week (which I shall probably do with Shanaz and Ara).
Lunch at Chutney Mary:
Then, it was time for Jane and me to enter her spiffy nautical blue Prius and off we went to lunch–her choice was the very classy and very appropriate Anglo-Indian restaurant called Chutney Mary in Chelsea. It had been years since Llew and I had dinner there once and it brought back sharp memories for me of a very companionable time we had spent there with Llew’s brother and his wife at the tail end of one of our superb London summer holidays. The food was just fantastic especially the starter we both chose–grilled scallops with a tomato chutney on a delicately saffron-flavored bed of sauce that was so good it deserved to be sopped up with naan (which we requested). Jane chose a terrifically fragrant Chicken Biryani done in a green masala and I went for the Calcutta Prawn Curry with Naan which offered about six plump prawns in a delicious sauce. With garlic naan, the meal was made memorable. For ‘pudding’, we both chose Srikhand Eton Mess–an Anglo-Indian take on Britain’s famous Eton Mess that usually features whipped cream, meringues and strawberries. This one had saffron srikhand with fresh mangoes and meringues. So creative and so yummy! I am happy to see that Chutney Mary has lost none of its excellence although Jane was adamant that far better Indian restaurants exist in Bradford where she lives. I found her compoany fascinating. She is a warm, witty, highly intelligent and very polite person indeed–really lovely. I was so glad we met and that I was able to get to know her a little better.
The Noisy Notting Hill Carnival:
It was time for Jane to move on to her business meeting and for me to re-connect with Shahnaz and Azra who had arrived at the Chapel too late to find the great doors closed. They had strolled through the lawns and moved on and when I did call them, discovered that they were already at the Notting Hill Carnival which was the next item on my agenda. Jane obligingly dropped me at Notting Hill Tube station which was already swarming with crowds. For the Notting Hill Carnival is one of Europe’s biggest street fairs and attracts massive crowds. Since this was the first time I actually happened to be in London during the carnival and since it happens only once a year on August Bank Holiday Weekend, attending it was a no-brainer.
Police were thicker than flies (what with the fears that had arisen from the recent riots) through the Notting Hill area and as I made my way through the maze of streets with their beautiful terraced houses and gardens, I followed the sound of the Caribbean steel drums to the actual parade where floats and hundreds of carnival revellers went slowly by to the sound of soca and reggae music. The carnival has a Caribbean flavor and jerk chicken was being offered from food stands all along the route. Liquor was being openly consumed on the streets and young folks were clearly having a blast. I had been warned repeatedly by friends to watch my belongings carefully and the police on the streets also advised me to do the same each time I approached them for directions. Today happened to be the Children’s Parade and loads of little ones, gaudily costumed, were in the parade (with several full-grown people that I would hardly label children!). It was noisy, tiring (all that walking), a bit crazy. But at the end of the day, I’m glad I went and discovered what all the hype surrounding the Notting Hill Carnival is about.
On my way back, I veered far away from the crowds and noise and was fortunate enough to chance upon the Prince Edward Pub at Prince Square where I was able to use a loo because wild pachyderms could not induce me to use one of the Portapotties dotted around the place. Knowing that I was London-centered for the next week, I walked to Queensway Tube station (Notting Hill Station was closed) and bought myself a seven-day bus pass for 17 pounds–which regular readers of this blog know is my favorite form of London transportation (and so cheap too!)
Then, of course, I changed three buses, sat on the top deck at the picture window each time and made my way home. I spent the evening resting and catching up on email and discovering that Southport had lost TV, internet and phone connections–so Llew and I would remain incommunicado until further notice. His cell phone and electricity are still functioning, however, so we will be in touch no matter how long power restoration might take. With my hosts out for the day, their son Edward proved to be the perfect host, offering me dinner (Domino’s pizza) and his company as I sat back and chilled.
It had turned out to be a glorious day in more ways than one and I am thrilled that I was positive enough to make lemonade out of the lemon that had been handed me by Virgin Atlantic in the morning.