There is a wedding at Rothley Court this evening and the place is abuzz with activity. The slim and the beautiful are eating their all-English fare with relish and drinking their Chilean wine with gusto (or maybe they’re talking with gusto and drink their wine with something else).

I decided to dine at the suitable time of 8:30 pm. Not too late to be pretentious and no too early to be a completely unsophisticated tosser. Tonight it’s a delicate little fish-thing starter with quail’s eggs and a glass of Shiraz followed by calves liver and probably another glass of that fine plonk. And, I may, since this is my last sleep here, splash-out on some delicately sweet desert and an espresso to finish — maybe Treacle Lattice Tart served with a Spiced Apricots and Plumb Compote.

The dining room is intimate and as you might expect full of dark wood panelling combined with 18th century stonework and rich red carpets. The staff are young and nice and efficient and the fare is good — above average English fare I’d say and at a reasonable price.

Those who know me will testify to my delicate eating habits and my attunedness to a finer, subtler more ethereal form of eating experience. And dining at Rothley has surely lived up to these high personal standards.

As I look around I notice the wedding cake has recently been cut because the wait-staff are scurrying hither and dither with platters full of wedding-cake for the guest and the table to my right has just arrived — it’s 9:30pm and obviously an even more suitable hour to dine.

A cute blond waitress stands patiently beside me waiting for me to stop typing. She asks, “would you like custard as well as ice cream on your apple crumble?” And instead of answering immediately I ponder how life seems to be tougher in the UK for the average Joe than for us Aussies.

With an exchange rate against the UK pound that is to die for, things don’t get much better than this so I go for broke. “No,” I tell her. “I’ll have two scoops of ice cream and, when you have a moment, will you also fetch me a Cognac.”

Chin, chin.

Even in cute country towns like Oakham parking-rage sleeps (all be it quietly) beneath the surface. Today I experienced the full brunt of a tweed dressed individual’s dummy-spit. His anger was to do with him driving past a woman who was getting into her car to leave. I couldn’t believe my luck as I watched him in his Jag, obviously frustrated with the parking situation drive past her, missing the fact she was leaving.

I on the other hand, I had seen her, so I flicked my indicator and waited for her to pull out. Isn’t it a fact that good and calm people like me receive Gods parking graces and bad angry types like him, well, they don’t. They end up getting short-changed by God and receive an occasional flick on the ear by Him as well.

Anyway, there I was waiting patiently, indicator blinking happily, when to my indignant horror the Jag suddenly stopped and started backing up in a effort to psych me out of my God given right — the parking spot. He backed up almost onto my front bumper, but I stood fast — which meant the poor woman in her Toyota couldn’t exit her parking spot.

The Stand Off

When one assesses these types of situations in the rush of the moment I don’t know about you, but I thought, who would I rather be here and decided I’d rather be me as I held all the aces.

He couldn’t get the parking spot unless I moved and she was being blocked by him, not just because he was a twit, but because God was punishing him for being a pushy, rich country toff with no manners.

There is a quiet satisfaction that envelopes one when you know you hold all the aces, so I smiled at him, and at her I shrugged. She sighed visibly and he chucked a wobbly and tried to back up even closer to me.

Eventually, because I’m a kind soul from that gentle land downunder, I took the high moral ground and gave way — a half car length.

This meant he could back up a little more, but she still couldn’t quiet get out. I just wanted to prove the point that I was in charge here and it was my benevolence that was fixing this trivial problem they both had.

This is when he blew! Arms waving out of the window he slammed the Jag into drive and floored it. Sunny Oakham then enjoyed it’s very own smoking tyre display (maybe a new annual event) the nice woman in the Toyota then glided gracefully out of her nice parking spot and I glided gracefully in.

Tea and scone’s anyone?

All Saint, Asfordby

If you don’t like churches, well manicured farmland and regal country estates then wandering around this part of the UK isn’t for you. Not so many spiky-haired Goths or trendy urban types here. Just lots of quaint and over-priced cuteness being flogged at ridiculous prices.

I’m sure the UK has it’s fare share of artisans, but walk into many of the so called arts and craft shops around here and all you’ll get is some trite with its ‘made in china’ label cut off.

The historic stuff on the other hand is to-die-for. I love old churches and have decided to spend the next few days wandering around the countryside visiting as many as I can. Maybe if I lived here I’d be one of those old geezers in a tweed jacket who wanders around churches with a canvass bag full of wax and paper and stuff making brass rubbings.

Sorry if this sound like an extract from a travel guide that’s probably because it is, well sort of.

Rothley Court’s recorded history goes back beyond 1086 when it was mentioned in the Doomsday Book.

The Holy Order of Knights Templar built the chapel here sometime after 1228 when they acquired the Manor House from Henry lll.

Rothley Court is also famous because William Wilberforce drafted his “Treaty for the Abolition of Slavery” while staying at the Court in the 18th Century.

The last 2 photos are by a church in Leicester. Late in the afternoon on the day I arrived I went for a drive, saw it, stopped and had a wander until it got dark. Trouble is I don’t remember its name, sorry.

I’m sitting in a pub on Portobello Road having a gin and tonic — it’s midday. It’s also cold and windy (so I bought a scarf) and a bit rainy as well — but I’m enjoying myself immensely.

Life here is so different, full of many things I dislike — busy, grey and grumpy with more than a healthy concentration of shopping and things commercial. Yet there is also a great deal of energy and vitality here. A pulse that seems to resonate even in the London underground on a cold and rainy day.

Maybe it’s to do with with the large amounts of people, or maybe it’s just the buzz of London. Whatever it is it’s fun and tiring and for me also way too superficial.

My god were are all the Brits. All I seem to have heard today are Eastern European languages. It seems almost every other person I hear talk is talking with some Slavic tongue.

My second G&T was better than the first, the day has brightened and I’m ready to walk that extra mile and see if I can find a bus to take me to Chelsea and the Kings Road.

Sloane Rangers here I come!

This morning, like every morning, I started my day in a coffee shop. It’s become a way of life, a habit if you will. Why else persist with a ritual like this if it isn’t for the pleasure of it or to avoid the inevitable caffeine induced headache if I ever stop.

While on the road, my early morning coffee stops have provided me with a place to meet new people, watch the world go by and to gather my plans for the day. If I’ve the mind, it’s also become a regular moment when I might write some rubbish about LUE (life, the universe and everything)

Today’s LUE is obviously about habit, not just the morning coffee shop type but the habit of a costume – the wearing of a religious uniform.

“Hey, look at me I’m an XYZ god-botherer and this is my hat, or my headscarf or my beard, or my symbol to tell you that I belong to this or that clan. And by the way, you, you who look like a real tosser, no good atheist in your blue jeans and t-shirt don’t (belong to my clan, that is) .”

It’s Saturday morning in Golders Green, London NW11. The time is approximately 08:00 and I’ve just walked the 15-20 minutes from mother’s home to Caffé Nero for my double-shot espresso with hot water on the side. They make a good espresso at Café Nero and so far I’ve managed to down 2 cups on each visit. Three more stamps on my card and I will get a free one, and since I’m of that faith where anything free is worth grabbing with both hands, I am looking forward with consummate delight to that momentous day when I will receive my due and just reward.

The walk from my mother’s home is almost as interesting as a short stroll along the Ganga. There are no painted sadhus here, but there are holy (well maybe I best call them religious) men and women a plenty. Young boys and old geezers alike dressed in the garb of their various religious sects. Some wear broad-brimmed, tall black hats that sit high on the head and look particularly uncomfortable and ungainly, especially on a 16 year old.

Others sport large round fir hats (a streimel) and wear black or white tights and long silk looking coats.

And both have their white tzitzis trailing out from beneath long coats or dark suit jackets..

Some have jaunty skull caps worn on the side. And for the first time ever I saw a few young men wearing baseball hats as they walked to their synagogues for prayer and instruction.

No doubt there are very good reasons why these people parade their religious uniforms. One reason is it’s Saturday and another is probably because they like it. So who am I to nay-say their experience.

Maybe in some way wearing a religious uniform enriches people’s god experience. Maybe these things are occupational health and safety measures spelt out in their scriptures.

On the other hand, maybe they’re nothing more than a habit.

Like many big cities, London has its good and bad bits. One of the nicest of the nicest bits for me has to be Hampstead and the Heath. Lots of awfully posh, well dressed females combine with interesting architecture and more than a modest sprinkling of knotty and misshapen, medieval looking trees.

The posh tossers are relatively easy to ignore, except for their loud voices, their over zealous conversations about litigation and nannies and their annoying way of saying ya instead of yes.

Their nannies on the other hand, aren’t so easy to ignore. They are mostly young aggressive (executive level) baby managers who shove their way on and off buses and into cafe’s with blind arrogance and a superiority that is hard to fathom.

Seated in a cafe on the edges of the Hampstead Heath, I watched a parade of them pushing their charges around the park with firm determination. There was no strolling here. No ambling through life to the soothing tone of a Mozart whatever. These children and these nannies were on a tight, tight schedule and nothing was going to divert them.

Next to my table was a rather cute 3 year old with nanny who was trying to teach her to say arachnophobia.

“Just try it – arach-no-phobia, arachnophobia. Go on, give it a go, your parents will be VERY impressed . . .”

One day the kid will say arachnophobia with the best of them.

“. . .ya, arachnophobia, I learnt that from nanny when I was three. Ya, ya, it’s a cool word. Ya, of course I know what it means. . .”

What I also thought at that arachnophobia moment was the why of all this posh feminine loudness. I decided it’s a throwback to their childhood. They talk loudly because they’re not really sure anyone is there listening. How could they be? Life has always been a bit of a blur for them. From the day they were born the little darlings were hurrying and scurrying around trying to maintain a daily schedule. And then at every quiet moment, their dear old nanny would try and force feed them with an exciting a new word. Something fine and elevating and useful for a 3 year old, like arachnophobia.

Ya, it’s a problem . . .