August 02, Kingston to Putney Bridge

A milestone has been reached!  All taxis for the duration have been booked.  This taxi thing has been a such a pain.  Example: yesterday I brought my suitcase down and the night reception person, probably annoyed because he had been outside smoking a cigarette and had to put it out to come in, was quite put off that the bag was staying there for four hours! You would think I was dropping off a screaming toddler or something, and besides, he would be gone by 7:00.  At 9:40 the taxi driver called asking when I wanted him to get the bag scheduled to be picked up at 9:30. "Now would be fine," I said.  He called again. "Where do I go?" I wanted to say, "It is a fucking hotel.  Where do you think you go?" But I simply answered,  "Reception.  They know you are coming."  I get another call. He could not find the envelope attached to the suitcase.  "Look at the suitcase. Do you see the strap on the suitcase?"  "Yes." "There is an envelope tied to the strap."  "Oh, OK."  In the Cotswolds you couldn't get a taxi.  Here they are idiots.

Well, anyway, I am at Putney Bridge, Fulham, really, in a super nice room, the comfort of which I am especially enjoying because it was a crazy rainy day.  Why crazy?  First it rained normal rain.  Then it rained much harder.  Better put on those recently acquired cheap-o rain pants, and a good thing I did because then it rained like a hurricane was coming and then it stopped and then it started like normal rain and then the wind picked up like you thought a tornado was on the way, and then the sun came out and it was hot and humid, but no sooner do you di-vest than it goes into pre-hurricane mode again and this sequence—more or less—repeated for 17 miles.  

Life on the Thames:

Looking down from Richmond Bridge:

During one of the dry intervals, I meet Freddy, an English Sheep Dog, who has no energy:

But he does have an Instagram page, so anyone who cares to can follow him.

This statue is a representation of a figurehead"

And these two naked ladies at her feet are supposed to be dolphins:

Right.

Low tide on the Thames:

speaking of which, the guidebook warned that one must check the tide times at I now forget where.  I did and  fortunately I was going past that area with time to spare before high tide. Falling into the Thames was not an option as was falling into the lagoon last year in Spain.

The hotel is about a mile from the bridge in a nice-ish neighbourhood, so I was heartened to see a Co-Op close by.  But, disappointed in their offerings—clearly the delivery truck does not pass by daily— it donned on me that the good Co-Ops are not necessarily in upscale (relatively speaking)  neighborhoods, but are where there are big parking lots.   Lesson learned.  I still managed to cobble together a half, no, make that a quarter, decent something to eat.