With the pending visit of my daughter’s boyfriend we have been suggesting places to go and things to do in London. Difficult to say the least because there is so much to do in just the five square miles of London’s West End alone.
So during our spare time, when I’m not writing and she’s not working, we are ruling out sights!
Markets were on the list this weekend. After early mass on Sunday we headed out to the famous one, for me anyway, Petticoat Lane, in the city. It takes place on Middlesex Street,
“A weird name,” my daughter commented.
“Middlesex?”
“Yes, a weird name!” she wasn’t going to say it!
“It’s part of Greater London,” I said, that didn’t help. I made a mental note to look up its entymology and because of my age I forgot…at least until now.
Ready? Its original meaning referred to the territory of the Middel Seaxans (Middle Saxons) referring to the tribal name of its ancient inhabitants. Its first recorded usage was in 704. Tribal huh?
I haven’t shared this Wikipaedic fact with my daughter yet, I’ll send her this blog.
The street, Middlesex or not, used to have lingerie shops back in the day. At the weekends, actually Sundays, the merchants would put up stalls in the street to sell their wares to the public. Hence its name, Petticoat Lane, it could have been worse…
Queen Victoria, the lady who banned all words and forms of conversation that had possible double meanings or the power to lead humankind astray with bedroom and toilet references, passed a decree that the lane had to be called by its street name. Petticoat was too intimate a word back then. Today, in my daughter’s mind, the latter part of the Middle word holds more connotations,
“What is a petticoat anyway?” she asks?
Today Petticoat Lane carries nothing more risque than shirts and blouses, luggage, shoes and socks. Not very impressive. We crossed that one off the list and headed for Camden.
Here the atmosphere was crazy. As we looked up at the walls of the buildings, all kinds of three-D graffiti accosted us, cars, planes, shoes, ladies and dragons emerging into thin air. We were beckoned inside gloomy tattoo and piercing parlours by men with mohawks, tattooed arms and legs and perforated faces. We weren’t tempted,
“Who would risk having a peircing or a tattoo in there?” asked my savvy daughter as she surveyed the dark interiors. Remember she’d taken me to a tattoo parlour in America to have her tragus pierced?
“Who would risk having a tattoo or piercing anywhere?” I countered in my best light-sage voice.
We hit upon the Camden and Hampstead locks and the Horse Tunnel where antiques abound and it costs to walk into vintage clothing stalls! I’m not kidding, daughter and I escaped the incense and dreadlocks to wander through some lovely old clothing and we had hardly taken a few steps when we were asked by a man with a plum in his mouth,
“Are you looking for someting in particular, ladies?”
“No, just browsing,” came my daughter’s unmistakable Southern drawl.
“That will cost you a pound,” he said. We turned heel and left. Unbelievable!
The food choices were eclectic. Outside kitchens in a bustling courtyard, Rastafarian, Turkish, Ethiopian, Italian, African stews, with not a Micky D’s in sight. Daughter and hubby ate chicken tikka wraps, made in front of them. I passed. The algae on the surface of the lock water with various items of rubbish floating on top, curbed my appetite.
There is no-where in Dallas to compare with Camden Market. It received a possible thumbs up.
Tomorrow we rule out pubs…
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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