Travelling around a Summer Olympics is an event unto itself, a modern-day pentathlon of schlepping, dodging, jostling, pushing, barging and having suitcases run over your foot.
But here in this wonderful city of eight million people, travelling means you get to mix things up with a little joy. You get to hear people giving directions with such odd-sounding reference points as Dorking and Leatherhead, which would be a great name for a pub. (“Hey Bob, meet we at the Dork and Leather for a pint.”)
Honestly, at the King’s Cross train station the other day, I swear I heard someone saying this to a confused tourist, “Okay, you take the Circle Line to Baker Street then head to Epsom Salts, take the Houndstooth juncture, go East ‘til you reach the New Burnhill Golf Course, not the old one, turn right on Marylebone, a quick jag on Doddinghurst Twickenham Westhumble and there you are – at the Dork and Leather.”
Personally, I like it since it sounds jauntier than, “Take Main Street to 1st, you can’t miss it.” Maybe by the time these Olympics are over, I’ll have the foggiest notion where I’m going. Right now, I’m somewhere between Oxshott and Horsesham and I could use a pint with Bob.
Speaking of which, Oxshott and Horseham would be a fine name for a British comedy duo.