Platform 9 3/4. Check.
Tower. Check.
Site near where Anne Boleyn was beheaded. Also check.
Crown Jewels. The Clink. The Thames. Buck House. Big Ben. Westminster. Trafalgar. St. Pauls. Piccadilly. Covent Garden. Carnaby Street. Check, check, check.
I am returned.
It was a lovely trip, complete with tea and pints and game pie and fish and chips. Oh. And meltdowns. They'd bubbled at the surface even before we left, by Tuesday the pump, she was primed. Long story short: shopping frustration at Hell (aka Abercrombie & fucking Fitch). I swear there should be an epic called Dante's A&F. My fingers are not up to the task of relating how awful were the lines, the heat, the oppressive stench of too many people (including ripe teenagers, bleah), the insufficient lighting, the music. All this was too much for me, and the absence of that which my dearest youngest craves but can never find tipped the scale. Out we went, she protesting and I gasping for fresh air; her protests became louder and louder, the passers-by stared, and then she stopped and declared she was going no further. None of my calm voiced attempts at reason did any good--they never do. Had we been home, I would have distanced myself (translated: escaped) to permit her the time to cool off away from me. Can't do that in a big city, but I did continue around the corner (from which vantage point I peeked to make sure she was still safe). After a bit I went back and she, clutching the iron fence and crying openly, came with me, the rumbling and grumbling persisting.
I walked ahead of my darling terror and looked defiantly in the faces of the curious...what could I do? Returning to the scene of Dante's next and worst was NOT an option, we had to move forward. I grabbed a delightful cab and directed him to the Lamb and Flag (known in an earlier day as the Bucket of Blood) and distracted/fed my sweet girl. It was a temporary calm, but incredibly welcome.
After we'd finished and walked some more, the rumbles began again and, while waiting for the bus, she growled and yelled. People moved away from us. I remained stoic and calm, but I will confess to having not-so-good-mother-type of thoughts.
What goes through her mind when she rages? I wish I knew, and knew how to untangle the knot of frustration that causes her distress. Conversation is useless; her responses are hurtful and irrational. It's wearing, exhausting.
Peace was ultimately restored back at the hotel: she had a book and I had a(nother) pint.
Life IS good, even with the meltdowns.
On Wednesday we left, taking the Underground to the airport. A young woman and her boyfriend were on the train, too, and I was struck with how abundantly she resembled the portraits I've seen of the 14th and 15th century English royalty...it's as though she was a perfect example of a classic English look.
(Anne B., in better, headier days. Hahaha, I just crack myself up!)
So we are home, and all is well. Work is busy. My EMG is Monday. There are so many collateral thoughts attached to that event and, again, my fingers aren't up to the task. I have failed in my attempts to smile-no-matter-what and even found myself near tears today. My idiot mouth persists in twitchiculatin' and I am conscious of "other things."
Before I travel down this road, I'm making a concerted effort, right now, to smile. See? Smiling. Easy as pie.
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