As I waited in line at the Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament), fire trucks started to arrive. An alarm had sounded and the building was cleared. After the sixth emergency vehicle, I decided to take up the offer of a later ticket, and walked the block or so to the office. But the all-clear was given just as I arrived, so back to the tour line. 
 
The tour was magnificent. We went the length of the building, from the Lords to the Commons, with long stops on the floor of each. Amazing to be on the floor, but of course I'd been searched and photo-badged on the way. Again: smaller than expected. But as I said, I am the sort who can say "Mother of Parliaments" without affectation, so it was just what I wanted.  
 
It is intermission at Spamalot, which is exceedingly silly. So far, I've best enjoyed The Song That Goes Like This, and the fish-slapping dance. Other people (at intermission) are fooling with their smart phones and (next to me) reading the tabloids. I don't know why this makes me feel less barbarous for writing this, but at least I'm not reading anything. Just writing. You see. It makes a difference to me.  
 
I wouldn't do it if there were someone with me. 
 
Okay? 
 
English vegetables in a chicken broth is tasty and nutritious, but is it minestrone? And I'm not prepared to swear the chicken was not breaded in a commissary. But it was competently executed, came hot, and the accompanying pesto made it quite palatable. Have I had better in Indianapolis, or am I unfairly comparing an after-show restaurant with the best I'd had, albeit cheaper, back home? 
 
Soho is wild, what little I saw of it.  
 
I saw by the maps that a few bus lines went right past the hotel, and it has been useful: If the bus passes you while you're walking, that tells you not to spend so much time in the store. (This is not true all the time.)  
 
I am now in the café at the back of Stanfords Map Store, which has free wireless. I came here via Covent Garden, which was a sight. I gave very little money to a beggar with flowers, and more to a busker.  
 
I was coming from Simpsons, where they called me sir and Mr Anderson, and allowed me to choose from the Bill of Fare (menu would be French, as would be jus instead of gravy). This is a monument to English cookery (in the good sense), and P.G. Wodehouse and Arthur Conan Doyle set scenes there. About half the men there were in ties, which is the best so far. I don't say I'm a fashion plate, but I show an effort. Simpsons is grand. I took a picture of it and the front of the Savoy Theatre.  
 
This came after the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms. Churchill was mad for maps, was never without a hat, and could not tolerate whistling. Winston Churchill was a very great man. The war rooms were fascinating. I picked up my only souvenir so far, a navy-blue bow tie with white polka dots.  
 
A cab driver called me mate. About half the people I told I was from Chicago immediately responded, "the Windy City." They are not interested in the origin of the phrase.  
 
This afternoon, tea at Claridge's; this evening, the Ceremony of the Keys as they close down the Tower. Tomorrow, a day trip to Oxford followed by a concert at St. Martin in the Fields.