Jolly Old England

KING'S HEAD PUB

 

My legs hurt. My feet must have blisters bigger than beer foam. Here in Jolly Olde England Rebecca and I are spending our second honeymoon. We're pub hunting and don't have far to look. Every corner   in Portabello has one. Next to me is The Pig's Tail Pub, with something curly hanging from the front door is not tempting. Across the street is the Jumping Green Frog, a glass box displays tiny LIVE frogs that can't get out because of a fine mesh screen covering on top. The Silver Knight has a fake armored knight, shield in hand to the left of the door. It can't be genuine as rust covers much of it.

 

I shade my eyes with my hands and try to look in windows, spot a woman, but the youngest I see must be 95 years old. Even from outside I can see curly gray whiskers under her chin. The men are noisy, seem to know each other forever. The tankards of ale are colorful and clank constantly. No way can I even suggest to my wife that we try any of these. We walk around the long block, look at the neat white steps that lead to apartment houses.

 

Street vendors, pushing carts, are loaded with old clothes for sale. It is reminiscent of NY when so many immigrants came to America and couldn't find work. Those are gone and the old streets are traffic hazards. Elizabeth Ave. Here in London welcomes the street vendors. They are colorful, attract tourists by the dozen. How could I possibly go into a pub without my wife? For sure, I'd have to duck when she aimed her heavy purse at me.

 

We meander for another 20, 25 minutes, are surprised to see three couples, definitely not Americans, entering The Crock's Croc Pot Tavern. The ladies were a bit shoddy but did have a certain English flair to their speaking. We followed them in. They took no notice of what seemed like a true stuffed croc, possibly from AW strail eea but the realism of that creature almost sent me out to pound the sidewalks a few more miles. The group gathered us in to their table, enjoyed our company as we enjoyed theirs. It seemed to me they never once asked 'What was that you said?', as they understood us or were great fakers.
Big shot me, I picked up the whole blinkin' tab, left them having their pintsand tried one more tavern that advertised Good Eats on their window. This one was named King's Head Pub.

 

Don't laugh. I had seen enough these past few hours to see how the places carried out their strange names. Inside I was sure I would meet a plastic container holding a mummified head with a crown on it. And so I did. We asked to sit where we would not see the ghastly head. We ate well, fish and chips (nothing special). They are like American potato chips, bangers, big, thick hot dogs, shepherd's pie, (eh), a very tender rib eye steak, lemon meringue pie

 

And so we left, aimed hopefully back towards our hotel. Only one block away Rebecca stops suddenly and screams, 'My purse, my purse. One of those creepy Englishmen stole my purse! My passport, our room keys are in there, what can we do? Have you seen a Bobby all day?' I try to calm her down but can't and that is understandable. I take her hand, hold it tightly and find our way back to the King's Head Pub. The pub bar tender rushes to us, waving Rebecca's purse over his head. He actually bows to us as he hands it to my wife.' 'No one opened it but I would have if necessary. You, Mrs. America are lucky you left it with us English. We're good people, we are.'

 

I offered him fifty Euro without really knowing what that equaled but he refused it, suggested we come back and see Scotland. 'Them Scots are good people too.' 

 

All Rebecca could manage was a tear and a 'toodle oo' wave goodbye.

 

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