At the Lamb and Flag

Rupert kindly took my suitcase and we walked into Neal’s Yard together, which has been a center for astrology and occultism since the 17th century, and continues to be ‘til this day. He offered to buy me late lunch. I re – counted to him my less than welcoming introduction to London, which he seemed to take as being par for the course, and believed this to be some kind of brutal, mass sub – conscious initiation ceremony that all returnees to London are put through; a kind of belated punishment for traitors. We immediately began to discuss the Willow situation, retracing everything we had discussed via post. Willow, you see, was his aunt.

I did mention to him that i wished to re – aquaint myself with the London I knew as a child via letter. But maybe he had forgotten as he took me to Detroit restaurant in Neal’s Yard, which had a pleasant enough yet exotic sounding continental menu but the decor was a bit too modern for my liking, and certainly the area of Neal’s Yard was glass and steel rather than traditional, and thereby re – assuring, bricks and mortar of yore. Still, the lunch was much appreciated after the appaling food on the plane. I reminded him about my letter. He conceded this would not be difficult, and that he would try his best to help me, re – aquiant myself with the city although being a thrusting, young, cutting edge, super - post modern graduate of Central Saint Martins College he didn’t seem impressed by my wallowing in olde worlde post – Empire nostalgia and snorted depressingly beneath his breath, “you’re too old for silly dreams”. When I told him I wanted to visit Westminster to look at a small pile of old bricks, he exploded, “what the hell for??”. “bricks, dear boy, are mankind’s most important creation”. Rupert seemed to think this made me a racist although I am not sure about his reasoning here as the link between bricks and racism seems tenuous. He seemed to cheer up when I explained I would be re – visiting a lot of old pubs.

We left and went for a pint at the Lamb and Flag in Rose Street as I didn’t have an opportunity to finish my IPA in the Crown and I wanted to see if the old landlord, Peter was still there. This is the pub which in 1679 the poet John Dryden was attacked by thugs hired by King Charles the second after Dryden insulted his mistress, the Duchess of Portsmouth in one of his satirical verses. Once known as the Bucket of Blood because of its reputation as a popular bare knuckle prize fighting venue, thankfully, nowadays it is mainly known for its Morris Dancers providing the entertainment and the last few metophorical dying twitches of English culture to be found in London are to be found here rather than extreme violence, of the seventeenth century although Rupert thought they looked “like a bunch of pillocks” and “would rather see a boxing match any day”. I thought for a moment that Rupert might get his wish when one of the dancers accidentally hit a local office worker with one of his sticks. London is always, and ever since the Romans arrived here, has always been a city built on violence. And one does not have to scratch deeply beneath it’s surface to find it there still.

The Lamb was and still is an exellent purveyor of ales. I settled for a Youngs which went down nicely after the cous – cous and ginseng pie, or whatever the hell it was i ate at Detroit. But i was told by the current manager that Peter died a long time ago.

I told Rupert that I was expected at Freemason’s Hall for dinner and he agreed to take my bag to the Hotel Russell near Russell Square where we would be staying. I finished my pint and began to walk down Long Acre towards Freemason’s Hall, feeling like I was walking the plank. As many thought me a traitor to Queen and country, (which I will discuss later), I knew that my return may not go down well. And they would find me if I did not go to them first.