For the Want of a Teacup

London is not notable for its gastronomic pleasures. In Melbourne, if you're out walking or shopping or whatever and you feel like a nice cup of tea and a sit down, there's usually a decent cafe nearby ready to oblige. In London, unless you really know your way around, which I don't particularly, you either have to settle for Starbucks or walk for miles. And then, when you find it, it serves you teabags. In a mug. A gloomy mood ensues, in which the drinker contemplates the bygone glories of the British Empire and makes unfavourable comparisons between it and other countries. In the teeny-tiny suburb of Seddon, Melbourne, just as a completely random example, there are half a dozen cafes, each of them offering endless varieties of teas served in teapots and excellent coffee. And none of them play Sugababes for their customers. Just sayin'.

It was exceptionally cold today. I don't think it got above -2. I wore thermals and my duck-down jacket and was stoic. It's snowing heavily right now, and it's lovely and mesmerising to watch but I feel no strong desire to be in it. When you see the thing of mud and sludge it becomes on London streets, it loses some of its appeal. I'm glad of it, though, because it's all excellent preparation for Bishkek. I was intimidated by the prospect of this cold, but now I believe it's manageable.

Read lots today while on Tube. Emily has masses of Georgette Heyers lying about. This is a pleasing circumstance; given my jetlag, I'm in no mood for taxing reading. So I read The Grand Sophy today and more of Bill Bryson's At Home. I've also been listening to Sufjan Steven's The Age of Adz, which IS taxing and difficult and compelling and deserves to be written about, lots. If I find the energy, I shall do so tomorrow. Less taxing is this album which I'm growing to love, and recommend if you're looking for new music.