So I find myself standing in the vestibule of a grocery store watching Hurricane Florence deluge around us with a dozen others who dashed in with the same idea... only I see they're all reaching into their bags to bring out handy dandy umbrellas or raincoats which they had stashed ahead of time for just this (un)expected eventuality... Expected by everyone but me.... Welcome to London, Yankee Doodle.
I wait, fretting, until the rain has let up by half, by which time I've decided I'm just going to go back to Paddington, have lunch, and then back to my hotel for a shower and a nap...
I dash out into the half-deluge and run for blocks, making only right turns, until I find the entrance to the underground...
And low-and-behold I notice that between me and Paddington is a stop called Baker Street... which can only mean one thing... can't it? I mean, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth!
So just in time I hopped of at Baker Street and came up into the dreariness again. I followed the signs (Sign!) to the spot where stronger Shelock-ophiles than me were huddled against the buildings in a perfectly executed queue waiting for their chance to get into the museum at 221 Baker Street. (Ask me another time about the queuing skills of those unfortunate humans not programmed by an early childhood education of English Common Courtesies...)
So I snapped a photo of the bobby guarding the door to register that I’d actually been there. And I headed back to the warmth of the underground.
And a late lunch of British Mexican food in Paddington Station.
