Nostalgia and Roses

We bought our play tickets at the half-price ticket booth at Leicester Square, had shamara (sp?) at a little Lebanese cafe between Leicester and Piccadilly, and took the Bakerloo line up to Regents Park to visit Queen Mary's rose garden. I took off my shoes and put on new sticking plaster (bandaids, in the British version of the common language which separates us--Mark Twain), and John had a nap on the grass. Many of the roses were still in bloom, and there was a whole new flush of late summer flowers that I've never seen there before. We walked by 221b Baker Street on our way back.

We saw the end of the run of Shaw’s Pygmalion at the Old Vic. It was a classic, well done, funny, and more similar to My Fair Lady than I remembered, except for the ambiguous ending, which I like better than the musical. Henry Higgins was great, as was Eliza Doolittle--and I’m cheering for her to marry Freddy, as soon as she is able to support him in the style to which he is accustomed.

Sitting behind us at the theatre, people with the classic toff accent complained about the Labour government, albeit from the other side (and then told silly jokes to each other as they got increasingly drunk after the interval).