The Ks switched roles today: Katja took a day off, while Kathy was given tasks by her partner. I left Kathy in Nunhead and stepped out alone. I’d meet Katja at a church within the City of London. If you don’t know about this, it’s worth investigating. The City of London is a small area within Greater London. The City of London might as well be considered a foreign territory within England, as it has unique administrative powers. It is headed by the Lord Mayor of the City of London, which is a different office to Mayor of London and held by a different person. Read about this fascinating quirk of governance here.
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| (City of London) |
The Church of St. Magnus the Martyr was of interest to me because of another suggestion on YouTube. In this house of worship stood a miniature replica of Old London Bridge, which stood from 1209 to 1831. It was a crowded part of London, with houses, businesses, animals and lots of people right on the bridge. I’ve heard that people who wished to cross the river chose to go by boat because this was quicker than trying to cross the bridge.
I alighted at London Bridge Station, coming out at the foot of the Shard.
I crossed
the river, stopping on the bridge to book free tickets to the National Gallery
for Kathy and me a couple of days hence.
I must have missed the last button confirming my reservation because I
got no email, and when I logged in to the account I’d set up, no tickets showed
in my transaction history. Oh, well… Katja was having some trouble of her own and
found herself at the wrong church, but not far away.
The Church was pretty, as all such old places are, and the replica of Old London Bridge did not disappoint.
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| (The Church of St. Magnus the Martyr) |
From there, I followed Katja to the ruins of St Dunstan in the East Church, in which a garden now grows. This church was bombed and not refurbished after the war.
Our next stop was at the Garden at 120. This is at the top of the building at 120 Fenchurch Street. It’s free to enter and not as crowded as Sky Garden, which we would visit later in the week. The views from here were breathtaking.
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| (Garden at 120) |
From there, Katja led me to Leadenhall Market; we ate at Argentinean Grill. We chose this to remind ourselves of the wonderful meal we’d shared in Buenos Aires before the pandemic. I had the mixed grill, this time disobeying my doctor and finishing all the fries. Gasp!
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| (Leadenhall Market) |
Our last stop before meeting
Kathy was at the London Mithraeum. Here,
several floors into the ground, at what used to be ground level around 200 AD,
a temple to the Roman god Mithras was unearthed during construction of a
building that now stands on the site. We
entered and descended. We were led,
along with the other visitors, to stand around the temple ruins. Our guide warned of behaviours that wouldn’t
be tolerated at pain of being sacrificed to Mithras on the spot. How fun!
There was a brief audio show, the sound of pagan priests praying, and
then it was time to ascend to the light.
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| (London Mithraeum) |
Having walked enough for one morning, we
descended into the underground at Cannon Street Station, surfacing again at
Embankment. We waited a short while for
Kathy on Northumberland Avenue, just across the entrance to The Kit Kat club at
the Playhouse Theatre.
Today… was the day… we’d see… Cabaret.
What good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play. Life is a cabaret old chum.
I could barely contain my excitement. Once assembled, the two Ks and I got in line.
Entrance, excitingly, was not at what
looked like the entrance, but instead a little bit up Craven Street, at what
seemed to be the backdoor. We were told
that photography was strictly forbidden, and as we descended steps that
shimmered with silver strips of sequence, a sticker was pasted over the lenses
on each phone as it passed. At the
bottom of the steps, a long walkway led us to the venue. At a tiny cubicle in this long hallway, shot
glasses, filled with Schnapps, were handed out to audience members. I was getting more and more excited. (Schnapps, by the way, is specifically
mentioned in the script several times.)
Leaving this brightly lit, long, narrow hallway, we entered a much
darker area. Sultry music in (what I
thought was) a Jewish/Israeli idiom played as dancers in sexy feathered outfits
moved provocatively about. Some played
saxophones, one the piano, others clarinets.
We stopped at a bar, ordered cocktails, and then ascended stairs to
another bar, where yet more magnificently clad lasses and lads titillated the senses. Another set of stairs took us to the
uppermost gallery, where I’d booked our seats.
We were high above the stage, and had a wonderful view of the orchestra. The actors, we found, were phenomenal at
including everyone in the audience, looking in all directions to be sure that
we hung on their intoxicating lips.
One of the things I love about this show is
how camp and irreverent it is. By all
accounts, Berlin in the 1930s (then the capital of the Weimar Republic) was vibrant,
and what some might consider sexually deviant was tolerated there, and
flourished. The story starts out showing
this thorough abandon. It’s a
celebration of freedom, of decadence, of tolerance, and of life. But it is set at the time when the Nazi Party
has started rising. As the show
progresses, the crushing new policies of the government penetrate the
characters’ lives in various ways. What
starts in seventh heaven plummets catastrophically to an overwhelmingly
lamentable end. One might classify
Cabaret as a great tragedy. Based on
fact, as it is, it’s calamitous.
These actors, this direction, these musicians,
this setting – I cannot imagine it being any better. Our Emcee was played by Mason Alexander Park,
a non-binary American actor who uses the pronouns they/them. Cabaret is unapologetically androgynous, and
this seems a very fitting actor to cast in the role. Since I’ve been back in Taiwan, I’ve scoured
the internet in search of whatever video recordings are available, and I have
yet to stumble upon a version that comes anywhere close to what I saw. The film version, starring Liza Minnelli as
Sally Bowles and Joel Grey as Emcee, is well loved and regarded by many to be
the quintessential version. I cannot get
behind that. What I saw was much, much
more moving. This production has been
running on the West End since 2021, and the characters of Emcee and Sally Bowles have been recast several times.
Writing this now, I’m in tears and shivering at the memory of what this
musical did to me.
Sally Bowles is inspired by a real-life friend
of Christopher Isherwood, and she was quite a remarkable human being. The depiction of the character as part of a
sordid underbelly of society, especially in the musical, distances the
character somewhat from the muse. Read
about her here.
Isherwood himself led an arguably interesting life. You'll find links to information on him
within the link just above.
I was overwhelmed, and the minute I got home,
I bought another ticket for Saturday night.
(This was the eighth performance I alluded to in the introduction to the
British part of the blog.) (There is a
video on YouTube that gives great details about this phenomenal artwork, from
an artwork, from an artwork, from reality. The video is political and about fascism, and
that aspect might be distasteful to some. Follow this link if you wish.)
If You Could See Her Through My Eyes
Coming out of the Playhouse Theatre drunk with delight, we wandered a little in the neighbourhood.
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| (Post-theatre amble) |
Then it was time for dinner. Katja had invited us to hers for the evening. We stopped en route at Surrey Quays Shopping Centre to buy ingredients, dessert, and importantly, wine. Katja’s place is filled with art and knickknacks she’s collected during her travels. We have similar tastes, and I loved seeing everything and hearing the stories. Conversation was easy and animated.
The evening was soon almost
morning, so Kathy and I made for the nearest bus stop, where we were happy to
catch the P12.
On Thursday morning, Kathy again needed to
work. I decided to wander by
myself. Taking the trusty P12, I opted
to alight at Peckham Rye Station to get train service from there. A man boarded the bus and couldn’t find his
travel card. He searched for an
alternative, and the driver started moving.
The passenger continued talking.
From the back of the bus came a gruff, overbearing voice, a woman, admonishing
the passenger for talking to the driver.
The passenger asked if there was a problem, so she repeated
herself. The passenger obviously decided
to leave it be and sat down, but the woman continued to express herself
loudly. She quieted down when the
passenger stopped responding. All
through this, I kept my eyes forward and saw none of what I was hearing. This was not the end of her, though. She had now turned her attention to the woman
with whom she was traveling. She told
her companion how many stops were left before theirs. Her companion wanted to ride on to a later,
more convenient stop. The loud battleaxe
insisted, megalomaniacal and controlling. As they passed me to alight, I could now tell
that the hag was roughly fifty, and that her companion had some disability akin
with cerebral palsy. I was happy she was
disembarking and that I no longer needed to hear her grating dominance.
Meeskite
I stopped first at the Tate Modern. I fell in love with the interior before seeing any of the art. I did also enjoy the displays, when I got to them.
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| (Tate Modern) |
Next, I headed
to the British Museum. I wanted to go by
bus from St Paul’s Cathedral, but several buses had been rerouted. It was pretty hot, and I was becoming ratty,
so I descended into the nearest subway.
Surfacing near Bloomsbury Square Garden, I found a Middle Eastern street
food vendor on the corner. I bought a
vegan falafel salad, and entered the park.
All benches were occupied, so I stood to consume my tasty lunch. I decided with these mouthfuls that, as much
as I LOVE Middle Eastern food, they can keep their salty pickles, thank you
very much. Then I walked the two blocks
to the museum. The queue was
eye-watering. I turned around.
I got a delicious, fruity Taiwanese crushed
ice drink with no added sugar. I found a
seat in the shade in a tiny concrete park (could this be called a park,
really?) where I sat and slowly finished the drink. Then I walked to Neal’s Yard, before finding
myself at the Church of Notre Dame de France.
This was another suggestion from YouTube. Kathy was now done with her work, so we
agreed to meet at Tottenham Court Road tube station. I waited in the Föy Graphic Design Studio.
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| (West End Wander) |
We wandered back down Tottenham Court Road, stopping in at a pub. We rode on an Uber boat first eastward and then westward to see the city from the water. Ultimately, we were headed to a chamber at the London County Hall, very close to the London Eye.
Witness for the Prosecution, a who-done-it by
Agatha Christie, was performed inside an actual courtroom. It was fun to be in a place like this, and I
reflected that I’d never actually been in a courtroom, ever. I guess I might consider myself lucky. The set was changed by bringing pieces of
furniture onto the stage and carrying them off again. All this was done in view of the audience,
since there was no curtain, and to reach the stage, the actors had to pass
through the audience. Several members of
the audience were seated in the jury box and functioned as the jury for the
performance. There were scenes in the
solicitor's office and in the victim's house.
The judge, the solicitor, the counsel, the
prosecutor, the stenographer, the accused, his wife, the police officer and the
victim's maid… these characters had lots to do. Others, especially those sitting
on either side of the judge, did nothing, said nothing. How can the actors
stand a job like that? This production has been running since 2017! I realise that peripheral roles are likely
recast over time; I'm guessing those in this show are recast often.
I loved it!
The story was gripping, and I thought the acting was great. The original suspect was entirely convincing as he protested his
innocence, and got visibly more and more agitated and nervous as the court case
proceeded. I believed him without
question, though in truth, he was also good looking, which might have given
me some bias. I won’t tell the ending
here, in case you want to see it yourself.
I will say, though, that this particular plot has been adopted by other
script writers, and so while I assume that Agatha’s was outstandingly original
at the time, the twist was slightly spoiled for me by the later works that have
used the same twist. Thrilled with the
night, as we left, this was above the exit:
On Friday, we were slow to leave Nunhead. Kathy had some errands, so we headed to
Peckham in search of a printer and a post office. The printer we found in a building that didn’t appear to be office space; it
took a while to get into it, and then up the floors. Peckham Levels is a converted multi-storey parking garage
focusing on creativity. We visited an
exhibition on the roof after Kathy got her printing done. Here, as we enjoyed cocktails with a great
view of the City of London, a bee pestered us again. I say pestered; it wasn’t as if it was
threatening us per say, just that it was sitting on the rims of the glasses
from which we drank.
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| (Peckham Levels) |
Now we decided to get lunch in the area. We made our way to Kudu. This is one of a small string of South African restaurants serving dishes with a Saffa zing. I forget exactly what I ate, but I do remember biltong being part of it. Oh, and there was definitely wine involved. Both the presentation and the taste were great. Something was being filmed in the eatery at the time, and several of the staff apologised to us for the inconvenience. It didn’t bother me, though I did warn the cameraman that he’d been recording as several expletives fell from my lips. After eating, we stopped next door at Curious Kudu, which appears to be the second venue of this small string. Curious Kudu offers “Pictures, Paintings and Private Dining.” This was actually what had attracted us, since we were visiting galleries in between business. Neither Kathy nor I enjoyed the pieces much, and they were astronomically priced. (Both venues have subsequently shut. In September 2025, the founders consolidated three venues into one and relocated to Marylebone.)
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| (Curious Kudu) |
From here we took in several more galleries. Kathy led us to Bussey Alley, where several funky enterprises coexisted beside an array of small, specialist galleries. We went into some of them. We also visited the Hannah Barry Gallery.
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| (Around Peckham) |
Just as we were getting ready to return to Nunhead, a piece of luggage
at a street market caught my attention.
I had bought some games for my friend Anuschka, whose birthday is a few
days before Christmas, and I’d had these delivered to Katja’s to avoid the
shipping cost. Now I needed to bring
them back to Taiwan. They were heavier
than I’d anticipated and in two large boxes.
This new suitcase was going to solve my problem, especially since
Emirates had increased my luggage allowance for the return flight when I
upgraded my outbound flight to business class.
Solution!
We returned to Nunhead. This afternoon, we’d make our way further south, to Crystal Palace, where I’d booked us tickets to see an outdoor concert. It had been Kathy’s birthday in May, and I decided that this (might) be a pleasant gift. (Who can really understand the musical tastes of others, even those very close to us, or even those who share a general like of, say, in my case, classical music? I have friends with whom I agree on many, but never all, creators of sound.) Not being one for such concerts, I didn’t understand the culture, and booked the earliest arrival available, which would get us there some two hours before the music kicked off. Never mind, the crowd was yet thin and the queues to get food and drink short, so it was nice all the same to just blether.
The playbill tonight would be started by
Girlband. I didn’t care much for their
music, and the front woman seemed a little needy-demanding-apologetic in her
one-way conversation with the audience..
Never mind. The second group (who
was advertised at point of sale, whereas Girlband was not) would be Happy Mondays. I
didn’t care much for their sound, either.
The lead singer reminded me very much of my friend Jerry, who now lives
in Hungary (not that this is the reason for disliking them – Jerry is not a
singer). There was also a male
cheerleader, whose sole role was to bop up and down the breadth of the stage,
clapping and spurring the audience on.
The main attraction was clearly the third and last act, James. I did recognise one or two
of their songs, and their idiom was pleasing enough that both Kathy and I were
given to shaking our booty for a while.
On the other hand, the lead singer had to use a megaphone into his
microphone at times to get his voice to carry, and there was a young female
singer on the stage offering duet-like accompaniment. Of course, this is fine, I guess: apart from
Girlband, the other musicians were all older than me.
The audience - (one might need to use the word
spectators in this setting, though that might belie my cultural snobbery) - was
old. Kids under the age of 16 were not
allowed, and those up to 18 had to be accompanied by parents. Most people who’d come tonight were my age,
some quite a lot older. It was fun to watch
grannies and grandpas really letting loose.
All in all, I had a fun afternoon-evening, though I’m sure the copious
cans of “what-were-they-selling” and the obvious joy of being with a
long-standing friend had much to do with it.
Kathy suggested that we don’t wait until the very end to leave so that
we could be the first to board a bus and not have to wait who-knows-how-long to
get home. Done!
Although it was already late, I wanted to wash and hang my laundry so it could dry before my departure two days hence. Kathy went straight to bed as she was departing early tomorrow.
Don’t Go