My pal Devon agreed to come up to London today with her daughter India, age 13. We were to meet at the Geffrye Museum, which has exhibits related to the interiors of middle class homes from the 16th century to the present day in England. It's housed in an old hospital, which used to have an almshouse for the "aged poor," which has been restored and which can be toured on select days, of which this was unfortunately not one. Devon is my friend from university who looks like someone out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting and duly showed up in an ankle-length peacock blue velvet coat with decorations of mirrored glass and silver thread. She lives an English major's dream: After some years of schooling in England, she married a man who was then in the Royal Navy and is still a foot taller and much handsomer and more polite than anyone else you know. Devon received her doctorate and teaches English literature. India, their daughter, told me her ambition is to be an actor and a writer, and not to be bossed around by anyone. They all live in a house in the south of England, along with a hamster named Bingley, a tortoise named Arthur (who has several times run away from home, if the term can be used for something that must have happened very, very slowly), and five chickens named for heroines in Shakespeare.
Because it takes them a couple of hours to get to London by train, we arrived near the museum ahead of them and went to find some brunch. The museum is near the Old Street tube station, in Shoreditch. This area was once famous for both sewers and prostitutes, and as the home of Christopher Marlowe, who presumably lived here before there were so many Vietnamese restaurants. If he'd had the option, he might have been out having pho instead of sitting around in the pub getting into the knife fight that killed him. We were the first customers at one of these restaurants, right after they had what looked like a pre-opening time staff meeting. (NB to a Certain Reader: I had pho (rice noodles) with roasted duck and bok choy in soup, and JY had spicy chicken and rice. JY had to stop to blow his nose a couple of times, so you know he enjoyed it.)
This is the front of the Geffrye Museum:
Inside, there are series of rooms going through time chronologically, showing how middle class families would have decorated the spaces into which they invited guests. This is fabulous for people who like to look at paint colors and fabrics. More proof, if any were needed, that I am Among My People.
My very favorite room is not one of the period rooms at all, but the Garden Reading Room, where there is a tiny library where visitors can read more about the types of gardens that surround the museum. India plans to paint her room to match.
By the time we reached the Arts & Crafts age, we were all in need of additional sustenance, so we went to the very nice museum cafe.
Behold the Wodge. The Wodge be with you. Blessed be the name of the Wodge. In this case, ginger cake with brandy custard. While I had my mind on other things, and also a spoon in my mouth, JY took the opportunity to evangelize on the subject of the Amazon Kindle.
After our museum visit, during our trip to Soho via bus and tube, India and I discussed in some detail the terrible girls at her school who try to wear their uniform skirts too short, the Catholic hymns that are piped into the washrooms at her school, and my very great desire, when I was 13, to have both a school uniform and also a prefect's badge. I am guessing that India, who was dressed thusly for our outing:
was perplexed by my youthful aspirations. However, she is very well brought-up and listened with every outward appearance of sympathy.
Readers who know me even a little will not be surprised to know that by the time darkness fell, I felt more carbohydrates were needed. Devon and India took us to Won Kei in Wardour Street in Soho. I taught India about my inherited instinct for finding the closest noodle house. (Certain Reader: roasted pork, mah po tofu, war won ton, and a plate of fried things that only India ate.)
For India, tomorrow is a school day, so although she was reluctant to leave us, Devon ushered her in the direction of Waterloo station, reminding her that she had to finish her homework on the train, to which the response was: "But mummy! I shall be utterly exhausted!"
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