Guest Week Ends

Well, I finally have my flat back. Anyone who missed me over the past couple of days (all two of you), sorry -- just, more human interaction was something I was not prepared to deal with yesterday.

Since ninja_arzt and bluenote_bea obviously didn't have it in them to describe Friday, I'll do the honours. We went to the London Dungeon. That should probably give you the shivers all by itself -- there's torture implements in there! But of course, there are stories. When I take people out, there are always stories.

Think Disneyworld for the queue. And of course, us being us, we got bored. And us being, as nightskywarlock puts it, "a Trio of International Miscreants", we started singing. The set list included "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park", "Be Prepared", "The Lumberjack Song", and "The Drinking Song". Oh, and the two visiting miscreants provided the first verse of "Every Sperm is Sacred".

So we finally got into the building and had our picture taken at the chopping block. It's amusing -- he's on the block, and guess who's wielding the lethal weapon? Apparently I get more pictures on Monday. And they'll be scanned. Whee. Anyway. As we were waiting for our turn at the block, we got asked where we were from. "America, Germany, Canada".
"Oh. And how did you meet?"
"Internet."
"...Oh."
(It's fun how well that derails people.)

Anyway, we got in and the first thing we did was start criticising the exhibits -- loudly. ("He's not bleeding! Surely he should be bleeding!" "That's not what the ribcage looks like!" "Wouldn't his internal organs be all over the place by now? His intestinal tract would be covering two feet of floor by now!") That's if we weren't openly giggling.

(And Anne Robinson is in the Wicked Women exhibit along with Ann Boelyn and some midwife who used to torture her apprentices. That's sick, sad and wrong.)

At which point we started pointing out that the French and German translations of the signs didn't match the English as well as they could and generally mouthing off. Leaving one section of the Black Plague, some huge Reaper-looking guy leans over me and asks, "Are you all sweaty?" My reply: "Not over you, mate." He gave me a very odd look and moved on -- as did we. Directly to torture implements. Ah, the fun. Though we did tell him off on technique. And then we moved to my favourite part -- the courtroom.

Torture-guy became court clerk and introduced Judge Rotherington-Smythe. It was the Smythe that got us two short girlies in the front, and of course we started laughing our heads off (I think most of you know why). And of course, this called the attention of the clerk, who had me in the dock as the first person to go on trial. According to his 'testimony', he'd recenty been suffering from scurvy, and the doctor had recommended fruit. He'd bought a big bowl of it, set it down while he went off to do something else, and when he came back, there I was ... fiddling with his plums. (Don't you just love British double-entendre?) And the smart-arse impulse hit me again ... so the 'show' went like this.

Clerk: ...fiddling with my plums.
Me: Well, they were just so irresistable.
Clerk: ...That sounds like a confession to me.
Judge: (female, btw) So you were fiddling with his plums, eh?
Me: Well, wouldn't you?
Judge: ...Actually, no I wouldn't.
Clerk: I'm thinking of letting her off now, actually...
Judge: All right, so you have three choices. You can plead guilty ... and be shot in the head. You can plead very guilty, and be shot in the head twice. Or you can plead extremely guilty ... and just be shot out of a cannon.
Me: Well ... I think I'll take the least pain with most use of resource just to annoy you. Very guilty.

At which point I was allowed to step down. (The second person to be tried was, unfortunately, an Australian, and was no challenge whatsoever.)

And then we went on a boat ride through torture and execution, the three of us alternately crying out, "Bring out your dead!" (we'd been doing that all afternoon, actually. We did that all week, actually; at every opportunity...) and singing "It's a Small World". Loudly. I don't think the Germans sitting ahead of us were very impressed. From there we smart-mouthed our way through Jack the Ripper and the Great Fire of London, mocked our way through the gift shop, bought our photos and left.

Yo! Sushi is becoming a vast disappointment. Sorry, you lot. After a somewhat depressing meal, we went back up to Camden. I got purple and black stripey socks, hair ties with purple pom-poms, purple lipstick, a crinoline tutu thing and a black T-shirt with the anarchy symbol printed on it (in purple, of course). We spent the Tube ride home sing-songing "We're gonna look like fre-eaks! We're gonna look like fre-eaks!" ... except for when we got stuck at Leicester Square due to a problem at Kennington, when we sang "I Like Traffic Lights".

No, I didn't get them drunk. They were following my lead and I figured I would be the designated public transport user. It's just as well, really -- I don't think they'd have enjoyed themselves as much if they'd got hammered. All the same, the ride home was a piss-off; this woman insisted that she'd been short-changed and swore most of the way through to Stockwell.

Saturday was a day of rest, and today I discovered that London City Airport is ... boring, but with nice views. I hope she's not too bored -- her flight leaves in an hour. It was nice to have them here, but it's also nice to have them gone. My flat's too small for three people and I hate the consistent washing up.

And back to work tomorrow. IIIIIIICK!

Thess