Little girl in London

After much packing, and a flight where I managed to sort myself out with two adjacent chairs to sleep on - and realised that you really are never to old to curl up - I arrived in Heathrow, London England. As assured by the company who sent me over, I was warmly greeted by a Pakistani taxi driver, who had written my name - or so he thought - (Fane) and surname (Hervey) on a white placard. I felt out of place and slightly embarrassed, when after some brow furrowing from him, he whisked away the trolley to which I had been tightly clutching, laden with luggage, and proceeded to walk towards the biggest, blackest, longest BMW I have ever seen. I felt completely ridiculous as we approached the monstrosity, and had to launch myself somewhat with a run-up, to ensure I landed safely in the backseat. I dared not refuse the mineral water and newspaper presented to me in the lap of luxury, and just to check it was all real, I stretched out my legs to confirm they couldn't quite reach the seat in front. Dark eyes looked on curiously from the review mirror. "I'm from South Africa you know," I said. "They don't make them this big back home."

It rained the morning of my arrival, which somehow made me feel more comfortable and settled in that backseat. I attempted to read bits and bobs of BP'S intention to resume drilling in the Gulf, facebooks £85 billion valuation, the fall of copper and the rise in oil prices, but started to feel nauseous as the taxi lurched back and forth in peak hour traffic. The journey felt similar to the one's I had experienced in Indian tuk-tuk's, amidst the bedlam of the Indian traffic system (or lack thereof) than a London luxury cab. 

London is blossoming and Spring has certainly sprung. There are hundreds of gorgeous cherry blossom trees, scattered in and around projecting bay window apartments. So many of the solitary apartments used to be one of several rooms in large mansions with Lady's, Lords and servants and I love to daydream about the lives they may have lived. An old drawing room that may have been reserved for high tea, is now likely to be a double bedroom, with a bathroom and kitchenette intact, inhabited by at least 3 people.


Blue plaques with distinguished names line some of the streets, which commemorate famous figures who previously occupied the building by living or working there. I find it a fascinating trail of history, that links past with present. To be eligible for a plaque in your name, you would need to have been dead for twenty years (and therefore unlikely to be reading this), as well as recognised by other prominent figures of society, specific to the area of the nominees expertise, and obviously to have made a significant impact to "human welfare or happiness." An nominee may also not have more that two of the said plaques worldwide. Some of the well known London plaque names include Oscar Wilde (Kensignton), Virginia Wolfe (Preston square), Vincent Van Gogh (Lambeth) and John Lennon (Liverpool).

After an hour we arrived in Tower Hill, my new home for the next 3 weeks.