Day Ten: SCONES, AND AWE IN FRONT OF THE ALBERT MEMORIAL

So, today I woke up inexcusably late. I think that really the only valid semi-excuse I could attempt to give would be that I was getting some extra sleep in, in subconscious preparation for the inevitable busyness of Bristol. We leave tomorrow, and have to be up pretty early, so this post won't be very long [EDIT: this is a lie. The post is quite long!] because it's already pretty late, and I still need to pack and fold my laundry. We have yet to figure out how to use the drier function of the washing machine, so everyone's laundry seems to take forever because everyone is trying out new settings every time they do their laundry!

Despite waking up so drastically late, I managed to get ready super quickly. However, my excursion to the coffee shop had to wait because I'd made a cup of coffee already, and I had to finish that first. I read whilst I waited for my coffee to cool to a drinkable temperature, and then I greeted the other members of the flat, who had just woken up (so maybe I hadn't woken up so late?) and left. I found my way to the place I'd marked on my trip home from Hyde Park yesterday: Le Pain Quotidien. It was extremely busy, being almost lunch time, but I spotted a little table by the window and sat down. I ordered, first, a regular cappuccino. I always face an existential crisis when I'm required to choose between a cappuccino and any other sort of drink. Somehow, cappuccinos are intrinsically linked to the whole ethos of the café experience, and, as such, I feel like I'm committing high treason against all the stalwart supporters of the genuine café experience, of whose number I consider myself one. Hence the existential crisis. 

I felt a little bit guilty sitting there for so long and taking up table-space, seeing as they were so busy, and so I considered it only decent to order something else. I asked for the menu and spent a stressful five minutes debating between soup-and-fancy-bread and scones-and-jam-and-cream. On one hand, soup and fancy bread was healthy, filling, and a lunch-like repast. And yet... and yet scones-and-jam-and-cream is a quintessential British pastime; partaking in the ingestion of such a treat is more than committing the simple act of eating. It is, rather,  a way of immersing oneself in the very essence of Britain. Furthermore, is there ever really a choice between soup and scones? 

Scones it was.

Eventually I departed. The waiters and waitresses must have watched me go with a sense of relief, the weight of uncertainty: when will she go? will she order something else? will we have to ask her to leave? cascading off their collective consciousness at the same rate that the water cascades out of our overzealous kitchen tap. I wended my way down the street, through my little red gate (which is actually a plastic frame demarcating a gap in the plastic construction blocks that line the road, and which is not mine at all, though I think I may be the only person to bestow such a familiar name upon it), and into the park. 

After much deliberation, I finally sat under an oak tree and settled down to do some more reading. I find it very difficult to choose a place to sit because there are many factors which contribute to my choice. I have to take into consideration not only the view on offer, but also the grass around the tree, the number of people - not more than two or three within a twenty metre radius, and the tree itself. I'm not joking when I say that sometimes a specific tree just speaks to me. I think I'm trying to say something similar to a poem I read somewhere, or maybe a story, where the character in the book can hear fairies. That's very vague because I honestly don't remember. It might be Peter Pan, where you can hear the fairies only if you listen very carefully. Or maybe the idea is from What Katy Did, where the author begins the story by talking about how she was sitting one day and heard two little creatures talking, which she wouldn't have heard if she hadn't been listening.

The eventual point of this is to say that I think I heard one tree calling me. And I also think that when anyone chooses somewhere to sit, they choose it in a subconscious response to the call of the tree they chose. You know when the place you're sitting just doesn't feel right? Maybe the tree didn't want you to sit there. Maybe he or she is objecting somehow, calling you names or something, and even though you can't hear, because you aren't listening, you can still sense the hostility. 

Fortunately, I chose a friendly tree - or did the tree choose me (gasp)? 

I finished the reading I'd planned to do, and then decided to explore, without much forethought: it was a long time 'til sunset, the park was looking gorgeous, and this time the far corner of the gardens were calling me. I set off with the intention of finding Kensington Palace. On the way, I was distracted by the tall cross atop the Albert Memorial, which of course I went to go and see. The Victorians truly knew how to make a monument! We've just read about Trafalgar Square, in an historical and cultural context, and so it was with critical eyes that I intended to look on the Albert Memorial monument. However, the moment I drew close enough to see the sparkling gold of good ole' Albie (I doubt anyone has ever called him that in life or death!), and the numerous vibrantly coloured flowers surrounding his shrine, I cast my "academic perspective" into the busy breeze, and stood in awe. I am surprised that the breeze was not a gale force wind, considering all the weight of all "academic perspectives" it must have had to collect over time! I don't think it is possible to stand in front of something so beautiful and not, even if it is just for one moment, forget everything you ever learnt about the British Empire. Even if you admire only the sculpturing (a word?) and the intricacy of the monument, while still remembering all the facts it also represents and perpetuates, you will, almost undoubtedly, have some sense of appreciation of the glamour and intense magnificence of the construction which towers above you. I think I have also read so many articles portraying Victoria and Albert as more than royals, as a very loving couple, talking about how Victoria never moved on from Albert's death, and about how she wanted the monument to be a worthy celebration of her husband, that I couldn't look on the monument as simply another monument. It has a love story to it, and as such is both tragic and beautiful. It is more than just another memorial; it is an ornate symbol of love. 

(I know that there are so many negative ideals buried into the fabric of the construction, which modern day perceptions would find immense fault with; but I think that there is always a more rounded and holistic way to approach something like that than the simply modernistic, anti-colonial, anti-Imperial, anti-royal, anti-anyone-who-took-anything-from-anywhere-and-succeeded-to-such-an-extent-that-no-one-has-been-allowed-to-nor-will-ever-let-themselves-or-the-people-descended-from-the-ones-who-took-whatever-it-was-in-the-beginning-forget popular style of criticism. Quite frankly, I think it is far too easy these days to "hop on the Facebook post" (not band-wagon, because the term might offend someone who objects to the practice of circuses allowing people to ride on their band wagons*, or politicians using them as a tool to popularize their campaign *(where the phrase originates), and we wouldn't want to do that, now would we?) So yes, I think that there is a human side to certain characters which people might not want to admit to, but is there nevertheless. 

After all the awe I felt walking around the Albert Memorial, I really didn't have much energy left to appreciate Kensington Palace, so I will have to go back another day and take it all in when I'm not already saturated with beauty! But from what I did take in, all I can say is that I wouldn't like to live there because there would be far too many people in my garden! Oh, and I got ice cream after walking around the Memorial, which was delicious. It was also a very large scoop, which I was very grateful to God for, because he made me take a few extra minutes to decide whether or not I would get ice cream, and in that time a lady entered the line, where I would have been, and she was served by the person who gave the stingy scoops, and I, fortunate soul that I seem to be, got lucky, and got the lady with the generous hands. She should be canonised, or at least have a monument dedicated her, inscribed with the title, in bold and cursive font, "to the Lady with the Generous Hands, who on the Ninth of July in the Year Two Thousand and Seventeen, gave the Most Enormous Scoop of Berries and Clotted Cream to a Young Girl who appeared to be In Distress. Always remembered with Great Fondness."

Then I walked home and made "ham-balls" in the frying pan (to use up my ham and cheese before we leave tomorrow for three days!) and ate, in much the same fashion as one would eat an apple, the last part of my head of lettuce.


Here is the passage in What Katy Did, which I was referring to earlier:

"The picture was so pretty that I sat a long time enjoying it. Suddenly, close to me, two small voices began to talk – or to sing, for I couldn't tell exactly which it was. One voice was shrill; the other, which was a little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. They were evidently disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over again. These were the words – "Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "Did." "Didn't." I think they must have repeated them at least a hundred times.

I got up from my seat to see if I could find the speakers; and sure enough, there on one of the cat-tail bulrushes, I spied two tiny pale-green creatures. Their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore black goggles. They had six legs apiece, – two short ones, two not so short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I hadn't been too big, I think I should have heard them creak as they went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same old words – "Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "

   From the first chapter of What Katy Did  by Susan Coolidge