England on Acid

It was like England on acid.

-- D. Nichol, explaining about England between Anne Boleyn and Catherine Parr

So, what was the orphan house like?

-- Mary Walsh, being socially irreverent when she asked about the Foundling Hospital

           

In life, we’ve gotta make decisions. Sometimes they’re wicked. Sometimes they just seem wicked at the time. Case in point: BBQ for supper, with free wine.

When the cook lets you take the leftover wine, and you factor in that it’s Tuesday . . . it leans one way or the other. What that direction is, I’ll let you decide.

Today was one of these days that began with a lecture that somehow both (1) spanned from the Reformation to The Wind in the Willows (feat. Mary Walsh) and (2) was relevant. D. Nichol knows how to play his cards.

This afternoon, it was back to London for a self-guided tour around the Foundling Hospital. Before we made it there, however, we got completely rained out. So we stopped at the next logical spot, the second biggest cultural attraction in London:

Starbucks. Where dreams and aspiring hipster novel ideas go to die

Here’s the deal: in the early 18^th century, a dude named Thomas Coram realized that a 75% mortality rate for children under the age of 5 was . . . well, shitty. So he started a place where illegitimate children could be brought to be cared for, given schooling past the age of 5, and then some work opportunities. It shifted locations in the early part of the 20^th century, but the idea remains today, with a foster charity program still running: Coram.

It took us about an hour to get there, but it was a slew of testimonials and artifacts from the last 300 years, all about children whose parents simply couldn’t take care of them. Heart-wrenching, but real, and that’s the kicker. Here’s one testimonial: “I think we did understand that we were . . . lost children, given up children, it filtered back to us, and I think looking back, I think we realized we were children . . .  unwanted. Unwanted beings who had been discarded on life’s garbage heap.”

That didn’t move you? Stop reading then. I don't want your kind here. Douchebag.

The whole thing was a three-floor museum, that went from a basic introduction to a complete restoration of a court room, to a whole exhibit dedicated to George Fredric Handel, one of the first philanthropists involved in the Foundling Hospital.

The church by Newgate Prison. This actually has nothing to do with 

anything, except that we passed it en route

And now, here we are. A brisk walk back to Liverpool Station, and a train back to Harlow (where we somehow managed to lose Morgan), and somehow it’s almost midnight. I was looking at the courses syllabuses (Syllabi? Seriously, why haven’t I looked this up yet??) and calculating how much I could afford to not do in order to pass . . . . before remembering that I’ve already got my degree. Slippery slope. Anyway, I’m not completely irresponsible (yet), but still 10 o’clock morning classes (vs. 9 o’clock) may be my saving grace right now.

Such is life. D. Nichol has already given me the lowdown on tomorrow, which takes us through Fleet Street, Piccadilly Circus, on to Criterion Theatre, for The 39 Steps. Remember the Alfred Hitchcock film? Me neither, but after tomorrow I’ll totally give a condescending look down on your ignorance. Douchebag.

We may even take a swing by Westminster Abbey then, since it’s only a matinee show. Still not sure what I’ve done to deserve this – but I don’t want to waste too much time figuring it out, either.

Cheers,

rb