On a typical day at our flat on Collingham Road, I’d get up before everyone else and shower or freshen up while the bathroom was empty. I’d almost always set an alarm to make this happen as the blinds in our flat were surprisingly effective. Our “bedroom” was an enclosed corridor off the main room and didn’t have any windows to the outside. Instead, it had a long rectangular screen above a set of double doors and a small, square porthole sized screen on an adjacent wall to let light and air through. The room was cozy, but always got pretty hot under the comforter by the morning. The flat had heated floors throughout, which was nice on a chilly morning, but added to the feeling of being gently toasted in your bed throughout the night. We had a small camping fan affixed to the head board which kept the air flowing around our faces at least. But the rest of me was pretty good and sweaty by morning, so the “freshening” regardless of shower the night before was always key.
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View from the main bedroom into the living area
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We only had one bathroom, so I learned to time this routine just right so that I could make coffee after getting dressed without having to sit around in silence until it was reasonable to make noise. At home back in the U.S., I could putter around unnoticed for an hour in ample square footage. But in this small, very “shared space”, any and all movements outside of the bathroom were a wake-up call to everyone else. By 8:00, it was usually time for other people to get moving anyway, so that was my cue to fire up the Nescafé single-hit coffee maker that sounded only a little quieter than a muffled leaf blower, maintaining a sustained roar for the length of each single-cup brew. Despite being loud as fuck, it actually did brew a nice, foamy little cup of coffee, especially after 2 tiny tea spoons of loose sugar and a splash of milk from the handle of Waitrose milk. Reduced fat milk here came with a green cap, by the way--just to throw off the Americans who are used to looking for blue. "Blue cap" milk here was actually whole milk, which is not a huge mistake to make, flavor-wise. But this type of subtle cultural difference definitely reminded us to double-check a label. Nobody wants an accidental dollop of kefir in their coffee drink--so you better pay attention.
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| Entryway to the flat |
While I drank my coffee (with green cap milk), I’d check the drying rack for dry clothes to put away, intermittently jostling the boys in their bed if they weren’t already awake and watching You Tube clips. (I say “bed” singular, because they shared one for the length of our stay in London). If they were awake, I’d spend a good bit of time announcing when the bathroom was or wasn’t free and encouraging them to take advantage before someone else needed to shower or shit. Sometimes, this worked. Most often, it resulted in confusion or panic because the bathroom was in use exactly when they looked up from their devices and decided they needed it.
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| Overflow clothesline (for things that wouldn't fit on the drying racks) |
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Two big boys; one not-so-big bed
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Breakfast often consisted of Waitrose toast with butter and jelly or peanut butter from a glass jar, like we were fancy. Some mornings, we’d have a mixed bag of discount treats Ray had picked up on fire-sale at the end of the previous day from a bakery in the neighborhood (he had an app he'd use to figure out what establishments were offering up extras on any given day). Other mornings, we’d cut through the Waitrose at Gloucester Arcade and pick up a bag of pastries on our way to the Tube. The almond croissants were a personal favorite, but chocolate torsades, pains aux raisins, and sugar-dusted donuts were also frequent purchases.
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| Our closest Tube station, Gloucester Road Station |
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| Our main grocery store, a few blocks from the flat |
Before we left the house for the day, there was always a general reminder of the agenda, including whether we’d be walking or taking the Tube, and what Tube lines and stations we’d be using. This was a total waste of breath, as every bit of it would have to be repeated later when half of us revealed that we were not listening the first time. This was accompanied by the ceremonial packing of “the blue backpack”, which housed raincoats, water bottles, a deck of Uno cards, a floppy frisbee disc and/or a soccer ball, depending on where we’d be going. My purse always carried my reusable water bottle, usually a scarf, and sometimes a vest or wool pullover, so that it weighed roughly 30 lbs around my neck most days. The boys’ water bottles for the first 75% of our trip were mini-bottles of “flat” water from Joe and the Juice we bought on our first day and repeatedly refilled until they literally started to stink. When full, they were the perfect size to slide into each side pocket of the blue backpack. Once empty, they were light enough to squirt out at inopportune moments, like when you’d turn to look both ways before crossing a street with multiple bikes, black cabs, and a double-decker bus converging on you from 5 different directions.
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| Foyer of Melbourne House |
The final burning question before exiting the flat was how and why one of the boys still didn’t have shoes on yet when we’d been prepping for departure in the same small shared space for a half hour or more. Once we all had shoes on, we were usually on our way somewhere by 10 am. From there, we broke the day into three 2-hour increments: something in the morning, lunch, something in the afternoon. That "morning something" was often a free museum that required reservations (British Museum, Victoria and Albert, Natural History, National Gallery) or some popular event that was easier to access in the morning (ex: Tower of London, paddle boats on the Serpentine). These activities got less and less enjoyable as the day wore on due to accumulating crowds, so it was best to do the crowd-favorites first. Some mornings, we’d sub in a park visit to let the boys play on the Old Football Pitches at Hyde Park, which was just a short walk from our flat.
Lunch was usually out-and-about and our main meal of the day, at a fun pub or a cool market (ex: Seven Dials, Borough Market, Covent Garden) in the neighborhood or general direction of the morning’s activity. On the rare occasion that dinner was going to be our big meal out, we’d go back to the flat for lunch (PB sandwiches or leftover pasta) and a short rest. Two of my favorite power naps happened on days like this.
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| Churchill Arms Pub |
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| Portabello Market |
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| Inside Seven Dials food court |
After lunch, our next 2-hour(ish) increment was filled with another scheduled museum visit (if a slot wasn’t available in the morning—God help us) or a park visit (if we hadn’t already done that in the morning). One of my favorite afternoons at the park was when we let the boys kick around on the Old Football Pitches while Ray and I had drinks at the picnic tables by the Serpentine Pond. It was far enough into the trip that we felt comfortable letting the boys do their thing just around the corner while we sat by pretty water like boring adults. We’d been able to do this the week before in Paris, due to the close proximity of our hotel to the Seine and a little terrace bar called Les Nautes right on the river. The boys had stayed in the room playing on devices while we ventured a safe distance towards the water. Upon return to London, it was a goal of mine to find a similar place near our temporary home and the Serpentine Pond was it. We later sampled our first (and only) taste of the very British drink Pimm’s from a pull tap here, after letting the boys dip their feet in the Princess Diana fountain nearby. Regents Park, Hyde Park, the Football Pitches, and the Serpentine will be the places I return to in my mind most often when I remember our home away from home in London.
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| Paddle boats on the Serpentine Pond |
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Walking through Princess Diana's Memorial Fountain
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| Pimm's from a pull en route to the Old Football Pitches |
Dinner on a normal day was something small and simple at the flat. Our neighborhood Waitrose was semi-connected to our main Tube station at Gloucester Road, so it was easy to swing in and pick up something to tide us over on the walk home. Usually, two reusable grocery bags (one regular, one wine carrier) retrieved from the recesses of the blue backpack were enough to accommodate dinner groceries (pizza, pasta, cheese, bread, sauce, raw fruit and vegetables) and drinks (a jug of Fanta, a refill of milk, and beer or wine). We were staying at an Airbnb vs a hotel, which meant these grocery store trips also had to accommodate the occasional batch of toilet paper or toiletries. But it was still an easy stop en route home (as long as we’d pre-packed the grocery bags or enlisted the boys to tote something home in their bare, squirrelly hands).
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| Gloucester Arcade, en route to the Waitrose |
Back at the flat, Ray would start dinner and a load of laundry while I plucked the driest items off the drying rack to make room for the next batch. Sometimes I’d skip off-loading the dishwasher in the mornings due to sheer loudness of its clanging at a time when people were just opening their eyes. If so, I’d try to snatch dishes out of it here and there in the evenings. If I was successful, I’d get the table set without being too far underfoot during Ray’s dinner prep. But if I’m honest, any second person in the kitchen was thoroughly underfoot at any given time. It did the job for pizza, pasta, and one occasion of pan-fried steak (all Ray, naturally), but gourmet kitchen it was not. The size, layout and appliances were reminiscent of a very fancy camper. Perfect for a single person or a young couple who lived mainly on noodles or take-out, but I guarantee that no Sunday roasts had ever been attempted in that kitchen. It was tight and it was basic, but also unnecessarily complex. Every outlet had an on/off switch (for both safety and energy conservation, no doubt) and the oven/range had dials and buttons marked by something similar to hieroglyphics. So once you confirmed that the outlet to your appliance was, in fact, switched “on”, you’d also have to just guess that you had the right setting and/or temperature. According to the frantic Google searches we made while trying to cook our first pizza, these mystery settings are pretty standard for UK ovens. But I'll be damned if we ever truly figured out how to use them.
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| The dial on our oven that made zero sense |
The sink was not designed for actual use, as far as I could tell. Because even the slightest turn of the knob would result in a stream of water so strong, that it bounced off the basin of the sink and showered all surrounding areas with water. Based on Ray's assessment, the faucet was missing a screen, most likely because some previous tenant had needed it for... something. Without it, washing dishes was a total shit show of ricocheting water unless I used the very slightest drip. As you can imagine, washing dishes in the equivalent of individual rain drops was a slow process. Meanwhile, the dishwasher had enough room for exactly four cups, two coffee mugs, a few plates, a handful of silverware, a serving spoon, and maybe a pot or strainer. Again, it was like something you'd see in a camper. Small and awkward. As a result, every dish we used was very deliberate. Do we really need a plate for that croissant? Nah. I’ll just eat it over the trashcan…
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| Light dinner back at the flat (after a big lunch out in the city) |
Some nights, after a particularly big lunch, dinner was more of a snack to supplement the nutrition our “fun food” hadn’t provided. Clementines. Super tiny apples. Sliced bell peppers and carrot sticks with hummus. While we ate, we’d throw on an episode or two of Ghosts (the BBC original that was recently copied in the US). Our living room consisted of a white pleather love seat and two small accent chairs, so Ray and the boys would usually pile onto the loveseat side by side—until someone would get too squirrelly, or someone’s feet would smell too bad, or someone would need to bust out some push-ups or crunches.
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| TV time on a very small leather couch |
Either way, one of them would always end up on the floor. I would always watch from whichever one of the two accent chairs wasn’t blocked by the drying rack that was absolutely always deployed. Underwear and socks were always in the most urgent demand, but those were typically clipped to the bungee cord line I’d strung up in the bathroom for smaller items. Back when we thought we had a working washer AND dryer (as advertised) in the unit, this bungee had been purchased as a luxury for hang-drying all my shrink-able female clothing. After the crash course in realizing that 2-in-one washer/dryers were shit during our first few nights at the flat, the bungee became a vital component of our nightly washing/drying ritual, as there was never space on the rack alone for alllll of our laundry.
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| The "garden" behind Melbourne House on Collingham Road |
If we got home early enough, the boys would jump on their devices and Ray and I would have a coffee and Baileys or glass of beer from a tall boy bottle, and take it out to the shared green space behind the building referred to as the “garden”. According to the somewhat grumpy signage, the garden was a place for strolling, quiet reflection, a respectable adult beverage, and perhaps some light calisthenics. Children were permitted to “play” or sit gently in areas obviously designated for them by the tiny furniture, but they were most definitely expected to be watched. The carefully manicured flora was meticulously maintained and would need to be replaced by you if your kid decided to fuck with it. No ball games, frisbees or “barbecues” were permitted, but you could sit quietly in the grass or walk peacefully along pebbled paths through tunnels of overhanging branches and flowering bushes.
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| Grumpy signs in the garden |
The children’s main play area was about 20 square feet of artificial turf tucked away behind a set of high hedges. In the middle, a coffin-sized rectangle of turf had been removed to expose a narrow dirt pit. I’m assuming this was their attempt at providing a designated spot for kids to dig in, but the visual effect was that someone had gotten a head start on shallow grave. There was something very neat and grim and British about it—like
keep calm and carry on, but don’t dig in the wrong spot of our beautiful garden or we’ll throw you in this hole and show you how fun it is to bury something.
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Coffin-shaped hole in the children's play area
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Needless to say, there was very little to do for the boys in this space with both frisbee and ball games expressly forbidden. But Ray and I enjoyed the few times we had to walk around in it and wonder about the neighbors we shared a building with but hardly ever saw. The person (or people above us) who made the ceiling creak exactly once each night. The people across the hall whose front door we heard open and close a few times a week. The unseen owner of the abandoned plate and wine glass filled with rainwater and leaves on the enclosed patio near the winding stairs to the garden. The mom and young daughter we saw coming through the foyer, all decked out in Sunday dresses while the mom explained the agenda to the daughter (“…and then we’re taking a cab to get ice cream while Daddy is working…”) the same way we did with the boys when we left the flat every day. COVID signs posted in the garden must have been considered historical landmarks, because they’d been left hanging long after they were necessary: reminders not to gather in the garden due to social distancing rules, firm requests to stop exercising on the grass because too many residents were taking a toll on it during lockdown. We’d seen a lot of those pandemic remnants all over town, like London wasn't
totally sure it wouldn't need those signs again. Or maybe it was easier to just leave them up and ignore them than to physically scrape the mask decals and social distancing dots off of every city surface...
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| Happy Hour in the garden |
On nights when we were feeling particularly energetic, we’d wrap up dinner and TV time early, and then Ray and I would go try out a nearby pub while the boys stayed behind on devices. We were never more than a 10-minute walk away and after a full day of togetherness, the boys were always happy to stretch out in their cloud of feet and fart stink. Hugo relished the opportunity to text us like a little old man and we got a chance to explore the classic corner-pub experience, of which we had no fewer than 5 to choose from. Stanhope Arms and the Courtfield were good for watching soccer matches, with Stanhope Arms being the cozier of the two for us. The Blackbird and Hartford Arms seemed more fancy, but were nice to have a drink in nonetheless.
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| Inside the Stanhope Arms |
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The Courtfield Pub across from Earl's Court Station
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The King’s Head was a last minute find our last weekend in town that had live music on Friday nights.The first guy was definitely better than the second, and both sets were deep cuts rather than fan favorites I’d come to expect out in Britain (something by Oasis, maybe Arctic Monkeys, probably some Killers or Kings of Leon, an obligatory Beatles classic, or an unfortunate tangent into late-90s Nickelback). But it scratched the itch that Ray always has to see someone play live. It also led us to the cute little corridor of Kenway Road and the string of truly tiny restaurants and bars, including the Cave of Lanka wine bar.
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