How not to arrive in London
I had a super-uber rotten flight. I don't think I'm ever going to fly Ryan Air after this trip. They don't even let you have water without paying 6 euro. And they blair advertisements at you the the whole way. And take collections for asorted Irish charities. And my skull felt like it was being sweezed in a vice, until I got tunnel vision from the pain, and then the sqeezing just turned into general agony. And the guy next to me was a talkative New Zelander who kept making dirty Jew jokes.
Then I got to Luton, and bought the first edible object I found, which turned out to be a tiny tuna sandwich and a bottle of water (there's no potable drinking water at the airport). It was 14 pounds. 14 pounds.
Then Steve gave me wrong directions, and I walked the length and bredth of Hyde Park looking for him. Nice place, but not while running a fever (again). Then I wasted some more time discovering that six out of seven phone booths in the city seem to be broken, and then had to pay 4 pounds for another 3 minute conversation.
The good news is that Steve is putting me up at a special flat for visiting professors (just until Monday). It's right on Hyde Park, next to the Science Museum. It's beautiful, much nicer than Savoy. Private kitchen, laundry, lounge, balcony (overlooking the park), plus squash courts, pool, et cetera. Unfortunately, London is not completely obsessed with "security", so you need a damn key card to do anything in the building, and the stupid security system doesn't work right, and every time I go outside the flat I set off ten different alarms. I press down button on elevator, whooping sirens. I bump into a protruding light fixture, set off screeching claxons. Guards come running with hands on guns, babes cry, small children snicker at me. Et cetera. It's like something out of a movie.
Then I found a pub and ate some fish and chips and three pints of ale, and felt better.