When I reached, there was me and one other person. It was an old woman who looked like every other old woman in London. (Short hair, long skirt, smell of pillowcases. Like Kanjany ammamma but with modern fashion.)

I asked her if she was also there for the tour. She told me she was the guide and that she was waiting for more people. And then we just stood there smiling at each other. By 11.15 there was still nobody else. So Karen decided to start the tour anyway and not wait for the others to come.

AYYO DIARY!!! AYYO!!!!

When you hear the name you think that the Wellingtonian Museum is some five-star hotel type place with Roman statues and Mughal swords and World War gas chambers. The website, of course, looked very high class and gave some long history of the Wellington family of explorers and travellers.

Mother fuckers all of them. The whole family should have been sent to Afghanistan with Durmondson.

The entire museum is dedicated to the toys, dolls and other household stuff that were used by the family. Kitchen items, curtains, pillows, furniture, spoons, forks and other useless things. If I had come on my own I would have immediately left in five minutes after looking at the ladies clothing section.

But I was on the stupid tour. Unfortunately my guide was very very enthusiastic. We entered one room with 30 or 40 shirts and coats hanging on stands. And she explained the history of each one. Each and every FUCKING bloody stupid shirt. This was worn by Alexander Wellington in France. That was worn in Paris during the French Revolution. That is a bullet hole from the First World War. That is a bullet hole from the Second World War.

Bullet is ok. But bullet hole? Nonsense.

If there were other people on the tour I would have definitely escaped. But nobody was there in the entire museum besides both of us. Not one other person. Not even security.

After two hours she told me we were finished with the ground floor and could now start on the main collection—Domestic, Family Goods, Furnishings and Art—on the first floor. She asked me if I wanted to go to the bathroom first for a brief break. I said ok, went in the general direction of the bathroom, and then ran back through the shirt room and escaped through the gift shop entrance out of the museum and into the main road.

Now I had enough stupid culture for the next two or three months. Also I know many many things about shirts, socks, spoons and children’s clothing. So I cancelled plans for the Royal Museum and came back home.

What a waste of time. Like Atlas Shrugged only.

So I sat and saw some TV and then did some Dufresne work.

So far the London trip has been a little boring.