London Adventures Day 2: In which I flail more than usual.

This morning we went to Westminster Abbey. Trust me, it's a lot bigger on the inside. The most exciting graves for me: Charles II (I tapped my toe on the Merry Monarch's marker), Geoffery Chaucer (who, might I add, was probably around my height if the coffin was any indication), Handel, Lord Byron, John Campbell 2nd Duke of Argyll (Lord William Campbell's great-grandfather), and Oliver Cromwell's marker (which I purposefully stomped). On top of all that excitement, we saw the memorial to Major General James Wolfe who died at the battle on the Plains of Abraham during the Seven Years' War. I think he's actually buried at Greenwich, so maybe I'll take a research break and find him tomorrow. (Yes, I realize visiting graves isn't normal behavior for someone my age.) And I may or may not have taken a sneaky picture...meaning I did.

All my friends are dead.

The Abbey held a prayer while we were in the Poets' Corner--I don't expect I'll be forgetting what that felt like any time soon. Also, I accidentally stepped on John Burgoyne. The John Burgoyne. Of Bunker Hill and Saratoga fame! Unlike every other marker, his was rather boring/very inconspicuous and outside the Abbey in the cloister. It was only when I tripped and looked down that I saw this and immediately stepped aside. (I'm convinced the trip was a sign.) Of course, I flailed. I flailed a lot. Couldn't be helped. In fact, I'm still flailing.

I'm never washing these soles again!

I'm sure my mom will want to visit Westminster when she gets in, so I get to go back next week and visit these lovelies again. Besides, I was too overwhelmed this first time around, and I need to find the Massachusetts memorial to George Howe! #18thcenturyproblems

We visited the National Gallery for a bit and, unfortunately, I could only stare longingly at Tarleton's portrait. The security people were staring me down, like they knew I wanted to swipe him and mount him on my dorm room wall. (But let's consider how inconceivable it would be for me to do that: he's got 31 inches on me, on top of the impossibility of getting him through airport security and customs.) I still took a picture, though, when no one was looking. Because it's Banastre Tarleton. Seriously, how could I not? 1) He's devilishly handsome, and 2) I spent 45 minutes praying the guard would be distracted for a hot second. "Carpe the opportune moment," as they say.

How to Take Creeper Pics of Portraits: An Illustrated Guide.

I also got to see three of my all-time favorite paintings at the Gallery: The Morning Walk by Thomas Gainsborough, The Archers by Sir Henry Raeburn, and The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Paul Delaroche. It was refreshing to see them again, since the last time was over four years ago. After a quick jaunt to Covent Garden for lunch, the Apple Store, and the Jack Daniels Barrel-tree (see below), we visited the British Museum. On the way back to the hotel, we passed Leicester Square, where The Hobbit premiere was being held tonight. We ended up not going, much to my disappointment, because my dad has come down with a nasty something. But Kate wasn't feeling too hot, either, apparently--the only difference being that I'm nearly certain Dad isn't suffering from a bad case of morning sickness. 

All I want for Christmas is whiskey. And to see The Hobbit. And Banastre Tarleton.

Tomorrow is another research day at Greenwich, but I think I might be going alone unless Dad magically feels better in the morning. In which case I'm going to be even more upset about missing the hobbitses tonight. And, for the record, "They're taking the Hobbits to Isengard" has been stuck in my head for at least ten hours, if not more. Cruel, cruel world.