Back in London again, now with the
chequered flag of my personal satnav well in view. I will be back in Sydney in less than a week. For slightly
absurd reasons I am staying with my sister Sarah and Grant is staying with my
nephew Francis and Jo his wife, a ten minute car ride away. G and I feel a bit
odd after all this time in each others’ pockets but it’s nice for me and Sarah
to be sisters on our own. Like an
aged and tubby Romeo and Juliet, Grant and I greet each other fondly when we
meet. Sarah and Grant have an long
standing enmity which, bless them, they are trying to remedy with olive
branches of one sort and another.
Grant invited Sarah to join us for a curry in the famous Brick
Lane. “But I don’t like
curry.” Her ploy was more cunning
and successful “I want to shout you a tour of the local brewery just round the
corner.” Grant of course could not
resist and that was how we all three set out like cats in a bag on a rather
fascinating tour of the family brewery that makes umpteen million pints of beer
a week which are drunk all over the world. We crumbled hops in our fingers and went up and down
staircases and saw amazing tanks and a machine that spewed spent barley. We were the only three in the group and
our guide was a gruff ex-school teacher who believed in discipline. Sarah being a local knew a bit
already. “That is the oldest
wisteria in England” she said. “Older
even than the one in Kew” And it was a remarkable creeper, smothering one side
of the brewery. Our guide
grudgingly acknowledged that perhaps that was the case but when she also
mentioned that the withies in the river were still picked by people for their
Christmas wreaths he stifled his annoyance. The next opportunity he had he said
snarkily “Our local friend will probably know this ….” Sarah didn’t and so he
was on a bit of a winner and told us about the OH and S rules for our tour. “It
can all be summed up like this “Don’t be an arse”, hoping for a frisson of
shock from us two ladies with our posh accents. I said musingly “We don’t have that word in Australia.” He explained and I said “Ah you mean
fuckwit”. He recovered after a
moment and joked with a barrel man who joked back. “Lots of banter in this place. We are like family here.” He boasted “What’s ‘banter’ in
Australian?” “Bullshit” I said sweetly and he hastily led us up yet another
steep staircase. It was at this
point he noticed that Grant was wearing sandals. “Sorry” he said. “You have to
be wearing covered shoes” and dispatched the 17 year old work experience lad to
fetch some plimsols for him. Grant
doesn’t ever like being told what to wear and has avoided visiting temples for
years on account of having to take off his shoes but what choice did he have
deep in the heart of this brewery with sinister vats of bubbling stuff all
around. He protested that his feet
were too big for any normal human shoe but the guide won that round.
He’d slightly offensively hinted all the
way that we were only here for the beer tasting at the end and we were to
remind him when it got near to twelve o’clock, our allocated tasting time. Sarah happened to look at her watch
around ten to twelve “Ah, not long now.
The bar’s soon” “Actually I
was thinking about the parking meter” Sarah replied coldly. Yes, I thought, one
to us. In fact I think party
West/McCall got the last laugh as the guide kept glancing at his watch while
Grant insisted on tasting this beer and that and asking arcane questions. His desperation mounted as Grant said
“I won’t try that one because we can get it anywhere (scornful emphasis) in
Australia but that one called 90.
I have to taste that. We
knew that was a special beer for the queen’s 90th birthday and Grant
despises the monarchy. It would be like drinking her blood. It was a perfect
chance for a lecture from our guide but he despairingly let it go, time having
marched into the timeslot of the next tour.
I was sort of relieved to be out in the
street after all that even though it was raining.
Next on the agenda for Grant and me was
voting in the Australian election as we would be in the air on Saturday when it
was to happen in Oz. Amazingly it
seemed we could just rock up to Australia House and vote, even without ID,
which was just as well as I discovered I’d left all mine in a safe place at
home being so prone to losing it.
On the tube to the Strand I started to feel
the effects of all the little gulps of this beer and that at the brewery and
thought. Good, we’ll be at
Australia House soon, almost like home and they’ll have a loo. Elaborate arrangements involving
cordoned off sections of pavement and frisking stations had been set up at
Australia House. There was one way
in and one way out. My handbag was
searched more intrusively than I have ever known it to be. My private spare knickers pocket was
unzipped and felt in. The French
lollies I had bought to get rid of my last Euros were sniffed. I suppose they could have been teeny
weeny packets of gelignite. I got
in and immediately asked a nice Aussie lass “Where’s the toilet?” She threw up and her hands and said
sorry there wasn’t one. I was
outraged. The meanest MacDonalds
has a toilet and Australia House doesn’t?
And I’m Australian too and not the pommy I sound like, as if that made a
difference. I thought of
abandoning voting altogether but remembered Brexit and the need to be
responsible and deployed mind over matter and picked up my voting papers an
went into a little cardboard booth with a pencil on a string just like in
Sydney. I unrolled the endless
senate sheet and despair enveloped me.
I only had to find six above the line but which six? I knew who would
get my principal vote but after that?
Who wasn’t doing dastardly deals with whom? Whatever happened to just a
number one? And the small green
sheet required ten
characters to be ordered,
only one of which I was sure was not dodgy. I did it all but did not enjoy my democratic right as much
as I’d hoped and hastily left the building. Across the road was a square brick edifice marked Public
Convenience. Thank god, I said to
myself but when I looked there were four little lights Vacant. Engaged,
Cleaning and Out of Service. The
last shone red. I hit the building
with my fist and turned to go when I heard a voice “Miss! Miss! and turned and saw an alert but shabby
figure sitting on a step at the end of the building. “There’s a ladies toilet behind that church but you’ll have
to pay fifty pee” “Thanks” I said
“And could you help me. I’m
homeless and I’m trying to get seven quid together for a bed for the
night” “Well, you’ve helped me a
lot” and I get him a pound coin and hastened to the back of the church. Sure enough there was an old fashioned staircase going into the ground with
black railings round it so down I went.
I put my 50p in the turnstile and went in noting absently that it smelt
horribly of urine and there was a long row of urinals in front of me. All very unisex in modern London I thought
as I went into a cubicle. Must be
the European influence. And why
not? I came out and a middle aged
man gasped as he saw me. I knew
then I had transgressed. “I think
I must be in the wrong place” I said.
“That’s all right love” he replied kindly as he scarpered into a
cubicle. I was panicked now by my
inappropriacy and general incompetence and couldn’t see the way out. Without a scrap of dignity I crawled
under the turnstile that I had fed my 50p into. I felt all right once out in the street, relieved in more
ways than one. It was only later
when Sarah told me that the particular loo I had trespassed upon was a popular
cottaging spot that I wondered if I had really been alone and when I had
uttered “Praise the Lord” in my cubicle.
Maybe there were couples in the other cubicles who had frozen like Greek
statues in shock. I hope I didn’t
cause too much bother anyway.
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