Season for dead mothers

On Farnham Station this morning, there came an announcement saying that Wimbledon was at capacity and anyone thinking of queuing for possible tickets, was advised that it would be for hours. The queuing millions, already there at 10:15, were going to be waiting for at least three hours. I guess if you fancy spending a Saturday standing in a long line in an effort to avoid seeing any tennis, that’s great. Not for me, though. I think it’s just insane.

I was on Farnham station preparing to head into town for farewell drinks with three Weasels – John, Lorna and Darren, other Weasels being otherwise occupied.

Today marked my first trip into London since December 6, last year, when I went searching for a gingerbread house. Mirinda has been up a few times since our return but not me. After her reports of the crowds and the lack of information regarding the timetable during the rail strikes, I was concerned about whether I’d actually get there.

But, get there I did and all was fine. Well, except the crowds. I didn’t like the crowds much. Particularly at Borough Market. As my bus drove by the entrance to the market, it was rammed with people. All good for the traders but, seriously, there were thousands grappling for the space barely enough for hundreds. I was glad I was going a few stops further on to Hays Galleria.

We were meeting at Hornimans at Hay, somewhere Mirinda and I had breakfast once, before boarding the HMS Belfast. Which is where Lorna, Darren and John had been. I declined their kind offer to accompany them, explaining I’d been three times in the past, but more concerned about the early start I’d have to make.

The pub was also crowded, particularly when a sudden downpour forced hundreds of people from the outside to come searching for undercover chairs and tables. Prior to the rain, it had been a little more civilized.

And can I just say that the wild boar and chorizo pie at the Horniman is delightfully delicious. As was the conversation at our table.

Having raised our glasses to my mother, Lorna told us the story of her brother, who lost two a few weeks ago. Being adopted from a young age, he had a foster mother as well as the one who birthed him. He only met, and connected with, his biological mother three years ago, and she died this year. At around the same time, his foster mother died as well.

As Lady Bracknell almost said “To lose one mother, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness.“

In telling the story, Lorna started by saying it was the season for dead mothers, which I had to steal for the title of this post.

From the Hornman we searched for a pub where Darren reckoned we could sample some blackberry porter, I think it was. We found the pub, which was so hard to find that it was easy to get a table at and lacked the typical tourist hordes of everywhere else on the southside.

Unfortunately, the pub had run out of the porter for which we’d been searching. Not that that really mattered. We sat outside and had a very pleasant couple of pints and chatted to a rather drunk Londoner telling us about the music he loved.

14 days to go

For him, the Beatles were everything so that when they split, he was devastated, thinking he’d never love music again. Then, a good friend of his, played him a Cream album. That saved him, apparently. He was also certain he’d met Lorna before then realised it was because she looked like a tennis player. The heavily tattooed barman came out of the pub to rescue us. Obviously the drunk Londoner is a regular at the pub. We waved the barman away. His rescue, while appreciated, was not required.

The last we saw of the drunk Londoner was him weaving along the footpath, singing to himself. I fancy he was trying to remember the words to White Room.

Our final port of call was not far away, downstairs at Katzenjammers Bierkeller where we had a lovely couple of weissbiers and some perfect pretzels. It was almost like being back in Germany.

And, with that, we parted company at the entrance to London Bridge station. It was an excellent Weasel Outing.