picking up merch in Reading (screw you and your tractor beam, Reading. We must have driven around in circles for another hour trying to escape the under-construction roundabouts that wouldn’t let up exit towards Heathrow), contimplating what was running through Iggy Pop's mind when he agreed to do car insurance ads,
and dropping off the car at the airport.
It took six hours. Definitely not an exciting day. But I totally got through my first two weeks ever driving in the UK without destroying anything on the vehicle, or another vehicle for that matter (okay, I scraped the hub cap on the front parking side a couple times. Have you ever tried parking in London? You need to have those whitewalls kissing the curb. Anyway). When we finally get back to the Walrus, my brain’s just not working quite right. So I go for a walk and check out the London that you see in all the books: Big Ben, Cleopatra’s Needle, Buckingham Palace, Gordon’s Wine bar.
It’s cute, and it’s funny to see all these landmarks while having flashback memories of learning about far-off places like London as a kid and it seeming like such a mystical place that only kings get to visit if they’re lucky. Instead, here I am, watching people piss on the monuments while I try not to get pick-pocketed. Ah, the destruction of such lovely concocted childhood fantasies.
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