There was no better way to see London on Friday night than from the air. It looked like it was under seige, hundreds of multi-coloured explosions punctuating the landscape. Were the fireworks some sort of elaborate welcoming committee? Hurrah! You're finally come to visit! We're ever so glad! But then I remembered it was Guy Fawkes Day and London really didn't give a shit that I was in town.
I'd forgotten that one of the most exciting cities in the world had been lurking just down the road all this time. Upon arrival I went into true Deranged Tourist mode at the sight of so many icons. Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Big fucking BEN! And Trafalgar Square really is chockers with pigeons! And all those places on the Monopoly board really do exist! Park Lane, Mayfair, Pall Mall. Are there any other ignorant children out there who began every game with an argument as to whether you pronounced it 'Paul Maul' or 'Pal Mal'?
By Sunday arvo I was knackered from all the excitement. I was quietly yawning beneath the famous neon signs on Piccadilly Circus when I became aware of an old lady standing in front of me, glaring over her spectacles and rapping her walking stick on the pavement.
"Nobody covers their mouth when they yawn anymore!"
"Nobody!" she shrilled in plummy tones. "Whatever happened to good manners?"
She sighed dramatically, "What is wrong with your generation? WHO would have thought it was SO much to ask?"
I stared at her as I struggled to formulate an appropriately withering reply. Did Shauna snarl:
A: Just you wait, you old bat. When you call Geriatric Rescue to say you've fallen and can't get up, I WILL LEAVE YOU THERE TO ROT!
Or mumble meekly:
B: Sorry, ma'am. I mean to do it but my hand didn't get there quick enough!
Either option ends with the condescending cow shuffling off in disgust.