Between Oxford and St. Martin's there were 90 minutes, so I decided to sample Burger King, which is a British company so it counts.  
 
The English Whopper, with everything, is bland. How did they do that? 
 
The Church of St. Martin in the Fields may be the world's most famous venue for chamber music. (They also run Westminster's leading mission to the homeless.) The concert tonight was called Eight Seasons, after Vivaldi's Four Seasons and a suite of four seasonal concerti by Astor Piazzolla, an Argentine composer of the mid-20th century. It says here he revolutionized tango music. The Vivaldi was energetic and joyful, and I much content. The Piazzola, interleaved with the Vivaldi, was a challenge I could not fully meet. I am an eighteenth-century man.  
 
Okay, one more bus story. St. Martin's is at the north-east corner of Trafalgar Square. As I emerged, I could see my 24 bus coming up the square. As it was only half a block away, I was across a busy street, and no stop was in sight, I figured I'd just go up the street and endure the wait for the next bus. The next stop was two blocks away. I waited there a minute or two, and I caught that bus. It was like an episode of Top Gear. 
 
Fairness, though it spoils the story: It went much faster than I could walk once it got clear of Trafalgar Square.  
 
Sunday. I have a few things on my to-do list, and less than two-and-a-half days to do them. First, an Anglican service. Easily done; St. Giles, the parish church, is a few blocks away.  
 
The service at St. Giles in the Fields was not what I was used to. The parish is no longer residential, and I suspect that the Venerable Dr. William Jacob, Archdeacon of Charing Cross, is not principally in the retail-clerical business. His sermon was learned, but it was an essay, whose elements I could follow, but not the overall theme. It was not constrained by the simple attention of the listener. 
 
I emphasize: Dr. Jacob is a nice man, learned, and, I am convinced, dedicated to his calling. But as a newcomer to English worship, I was a bit lost. 
 
The congregation filled perhaps 15% of the pews. Mostly they were elderly, but there was one very noisy toddler. 18th century churches do not have crying rooms.  
 
Curiously, the hymnal contains no music, only words. It made it hard to sing along, but I had no mercy on those next to me. I saw no prayer book: The order of service was in a printed booklet, which in the states, at least, I take as a bad sign. But it was Communion, which is the whole point.  
 
The people were very nice. They brought me tea and biscuits, and we discussed the credit business back home. The ladies were looking for wickedness; I mildly suggested stupidity. Dr. Jacob was very pleasant to talk to, and he talked me into the slow river cruise down to Greenwich, which was one of my dreams from being an astronomy buff as a child. So here I am, eating a chicken salad sandwich in the park. It is tranquil.  
 
My solution to how I can document myself at the prime meridian, without steeling myself to ask a stranger to photograph me, was to set my camera to take a movie, and pan down from the sign to my feet. People chuckled.  
 
I photographed others a few times. Perhaps my non-mini camera inspires confidence.  
 
I didn't see everything I meant to, but I saw enough to have a very good time.  
 
On the recommendation of a friend, I am now going to a steak house called Smiths of Smithfield (warning: Flash).