Wednesday, 17th May.
"Hello and welcome to tonight's walking tour. My name is...Richard, and..."
I nudged Charmari and Christine. "I reckon he makes up a different name
each night. His name isn't really Richard. If we go on this walk next week
he'll have a different name."
Not many other people seem to subscribe to my little conspiracy theories.
We were going on a walking tour entitled "Old Bloomsbury - The Literary London
Pub Walk". Well, what I know about the Bloomsbury set can be written on the
back of a postage stamp. "Richard", the born raconteur led us through the
winding streets of London, stopping here and there, popping into pubs along the
At one point we stopped and "Richard" was waxing lyrical about some local
landmark, when a homeless bloke wandered over and started asking for donations.
No-one obliged, much to his disgust. There was quite a collection of homeless
bods there, waiting for a mobile kitchen to arrive and ladle out soup and
goodwill. And the odd slap.
The first pub we entered was owned by the Rugby school. A soccer match was
being shown on the television, without a hint of irony. As the group of us
wandered along the street after exiting the pub, a young lad with a pole (or was
it a staff?) wandered past and declared: "My name is Moses, and I predict that you
will all die...of rabies!" Cheeky mongrel!
(I hope we don't.)