Kate's first flight

On this first flight to England the baby, there were three other blue plastic boxes, occupied by children far more animated than mine. The one farthest away contained a true screamer; the one next to me, much to the father’s delight, was a mass of whiny wiggles. Every five minutes or so, a tiny, limp, damp hand would appear from the box, move back and forth, then disappear again. The father seemed delighted by this sign of life. But I, for one, found it rather disconcerting to see a disembodied hand appearing periodically like Thing in the Adams Family. My baby slept like, well, like a baby. A good baby. I was being well plied with wine, my wife was sleeping, so all was right with the world.

Time for a quick drinkie...

Momentarily confused, our waitress quickly regained her composure. I told her to lead the way and together we managed to get Kate and her stroller downstairs without waking her. We sipped wine and ordered lunch in a surprisingly airy cellar restaurant, blissfully devoid of cigarette smoke. We had half an hour to go before we had to pry my parents out of the pub. Time to be alone and relax. Kate woke up, a bit groggy, but after a change and a bottle, she obligingly went back to sleep while we ate and finished our own bottle.

Ready for a lovely weekend!

Even though it was raining hard, I was looking forward to going somewhere different for a few days after a hectic week of hosting. It would be a time to unwind, negate the responsibilities of cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, and entertaining. For a few days at least, I intended to play the unencumbered tourist, gliding through any visit Frances had planned for us.

Kate meets T-rex

From Thurloe Square, it was a short walk to the Natural History Museum. Our timing was perfect. It was after four o’clock, and the entry was free.
This famous Victorian museum was enormous and smelled as old as the fossils and dinosaur bones it contained. We walked around one of the newer exhibitions featuring dinosaurs covered in plastic skin that roared and clicked and made slobbering sounds. Kate was fascinated by dinosaurs, as most young children are, but even so, she was a little disturbed by their realistic look. And yet she was quite unperturbed, once I picked her up, by the huge, life-sized, animated Tyrannosaurus Rex we encountered in the high-ceilinged atrium by the museum teashop. Odd to see a fearsome dinosaur swishing a huge tail, roaring and swooping about as weary museum-goers drank their tea and did their level best to ignore it. In England, dinosaurs should not make scenes in tearooms. It just isn’t done.

A dressing down at Harrods

The side entrance to Harrods had steps and, as I struggled with Kate’s stroller, a young man in morning coat and gray-striped trousers rushed out to me.
“Oh, thanks so much, I was having a bit of a—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you in.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t let you into ‘Arrods,” he said, blocking my path politely but firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but cut down jeans are not allowed in ‘Arrods, sir.”
“You must be joking.”
“It’s the ‘Arrods dress code. Sir.”
“A dress code? In a store?”
“This is priceless.” Frances was amazed but, unlike me, she was smiling.

"We're in with the servants, madam!"

Of course, nothing is perfect. Some of the bedrooms were wonderfully appointed with four poster beds. Rooms for couple traveling alone. We were given the original servants quarters at the very top of the house, up several steep flights of stairs. Even though our room was huge and filled with charming furniture, it was still the attic. The location was obviously geared for families traveling with small children, who could scream to their hearts content without disturbing the other guests. Poor us.
“They’ve put us in with the servants, madam!” I groaned rather dramatically.
“Must have known you came from Dagenham.” Frances smiled.
In spite of myself, I grinned back.

Who knew this was here?

The Hilton House had nothing to do with the hotel chain. Located just beyond Gatwick Airport near the village of Cuckfield, the former Victorian country mansion had been gently converted into a private hotel. Lounges were filled with large overstuffed chairs. The music room had a baby grand. We found the conservatory filled with a wide array of exotic foliage, pineapple plants and orchids. As we walked through, the glass doors that led outside were flanked by tumbling rose shrubs and hyacinth. We strolled onto the grounds across a carpet of green. Old stone birdbaths were surrounded by islands of geraniums, well-weathered park benches were perfectly placed for guests to enjoy the views beyond the garden.