The Men in Scarlet -- the Chelsea Pensioners and their home, the Royal Hospital Chelsea which was founded in 1682, still serves its original purpose: for the "succour and relief of veterans broken by age and war." Its role remains unbroken. Here we see some of the men exercising and rehearsing for the upcoming trooping of the color behind what were originally the officers' stables. Photo: JH.

Hot hot days in New York. Departed London from Heathrow yesterday morning, temperature in the mid-60s and oh-so-pleasantly sunny, to arrive in New York (Newark actually) to find temperatures in the low 90s and the city covered in the haze of its heat. Later in the afternoon, a quick, thick, torrential shower that took things down to the mid-80s. Summer is upon us. Meanwhile, London, staying at Brown’s Hotel to visit the Olympia Art and Antiques Fair (see Art Set [1]) where we spent Friday photographing the stalls and talking to the dealers about their goods. London is a little bit of all right, (as Mr. Coward wrote in a lyric for his show The Girl Who Came To Supper). I’m the somnambulant tourist. When I get to London I’m so excited to be there I can’t think of what to do first or what to do at all. JH was thinking of where he’d like to eat and London struck him as perfect for really good Fish and Chips and really good Indian. There is probably a Zagats for London but our approach was just to ask people. Like the concierge, the doorman, friends, cabbies. We made a dinner date with an American friend who lives in London. She recommended an Indian place called the Painted Heron just off Cheyne Walk near Battersea Bridge. Our cabbie was an Italian fellow with a thick accent named Maurice Negrello. As he was driving us through Belgravia into Kensington and Chelsea to our destination, he casually told us about what we were passing. I love that stuff. His ride was so interesting I told him he should give tours. He said he did. So we asked him if he could do that for us on Saturday. He said yes. By the time we reached the restaurant, we’d made a date for Saturday afternoon to meet at Brown’s Hotel for the pickup. We did; he did and we’ll take you on that tour on tomorrow’s Diary. Whizzing by the house of Sir Thomas More. The Painted Heron is fairly new. The menu wasn’t the mindset traditional Indian but something that seemed more yuppified Indian in a very smart and casual restaurant just footstep off the Walk and the Battersea Bridge. JH ordered for all of us – lamb, fish, chicken and the surrounding vegetable dishes, all spicy and delicious and washed down with King Cobra beer. After dinner we walked our friend back to her newly rented house not far from the restaurant. She’d recently sold a very ample but hardly enormous house in Chelsea for five million pounds (or $10 million US). I was astounded at the price (there had been a bidding war), and so was she. Residential real estate on the high end seems to have been unaffected by the subprime mortgage crisis. We went down Cheyne Walk which runs along the Embankment, passing the house where Sir (later Saint) Thomas More (A Man For All Seasons ) lived in the late 15th/early 16th century before he was executed by Henry VIII (the famous Hans Holbein portrait of him is in The Frick Collection). Our cabbie, Mr. Negrello, had told us that the house had been bought by a very rich tycoon who announced that he was restoring it to its original grandeur. Work was begun but the tycoon had a reversal of fortune and everything stopped and remains The Albert Bridge spans the Thames connecting Chelsea with Battersea. Its lighted suspension cables give it an almost post-modern look although it was built in the 1870s, another monument to Queen Victoria’s beloved consort Prince Albert who came to an untimely death at 48. Battersea across the way was lighted by a very post-modern high end all-glass apartment house designed by Norman Foster  and referred to as The Donut. The contrast between the new on one side of the river and the very old on the other tends to magnify and embellish the architectural charm of London in a way that New York does not. Most of the houses along Cheyne Walk were built in the early eighteenth century and have been lived in by a biographical encyclopedia of famous people including George Eliot, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Swinburne, James McNeil Whistler, Henry James, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger, Ralph Vaughan Williams and J.M.W. Turner, to name only a few. Today it is most prominent with Londoners because it marks the boundary of the controversial extended London Congestion Charge Zone. New Yorkers are about to learn a little something about that kind of thing one of these days.

The Albert Bridge.

It was a beautiful night. A quiet neighborhood with an occasional couple and dog or people hurrying to or from the local pub. Our friend took us past the houses of Eric Clapton, Anish Kapoor and Bernie Ecclestone – who moved into the neighborhood after selling his mansion near Kensington Palace to Indian steel magnate Lakshmi Mittal for 70 million pounds (or $140 million US — God, is there really a reality?). The houses are small but elegant, but small. My friend’s rental is a three-story brick with a small walled in garden and four floors with mainly a small room or two to floor. And I mean small, except for the lovely kitchen which opens onto the garden. Six thousand pounds ($12,000 US) per month. See what I mean? I live in a world where a lot of people think nothing of these numbers. It is also a world where very very few could ever think of it as anything more than a lottery. (But then we’re very into lotteries these days.) After leaving our friend’s house, we strolled farther down toward King’s Road. The pubs are usually on the corners and are quite democratic. No smoking laws are in effect and so the pavement outside is jammed with 20- and 30- Somethings smoking and quaffing their booze. The pubs are generally old and beautifully refurbished to give it that veneer of history and tradition to the ritual going on in and outside its doors. Single people pub-crawling is hardly a phenomenon but it’s different in London from New York. And although the pubs have different pedigrees, they have the sameness of the crowds who come and go but often spend much of the evening from after-office to home to sleep (or pass out?)

Above: An alleyway off of King's Road in Chelsea. Right: Our friend and her little dachshund, "Sundance," in her Chelsea kitchen which opens onto the garden.

No Sun on Saturday but that’s okay, we’re British (for the visit). JH wanted to photograph the statue and monument to Prince Albert which we’d passed so many times traveling back and forth between Brown’s Hotel and the Olympia Art and Antiques Fair. This seemed like a perfect day to look around with the JH lens. Now they know how many holes It takes to fill the Albert Hall I love to turn-rr-rr-rn you-oo-oo-oo on-ah-ah-ah-ah-on ... “A Day In The Life” Lennon and McCartney That’s what runs through my head (the tune too, of course) every single time I see the Albert Hall. I know: not very clever or witty or knowledgeable. Just the drivel of culture and memory.

The photograph is taken standing in front of the Albert Statue where the beloved and bereaved sits looking out at the Royal Albert Hall which was built, like the monument of Prince Albert, in his memory by his aggrieved wife. The Royal Albert Hall is a great auditorium that has an allure and purpose very similar to our Carnegie Hall. Except it’s grander; much.

Left: A tudor-style mansion directly across from Royal Albert Hall.

The Prince’s statue sits on the edge of Hyde Park, one London’s largest royal parks and at 625 acres (including Kensington Gardens where Kensington Palace sits) it is about three-quarters the size of Central Park. It was a beautiful, though overcast, for a walk in the park. It wasn’t nearly as populated as Central Park on a Saturday but there were lots of families, couples, singles, dog-lovers, dogs and birds with lots and lots of space in between. Because so much of London construction is still low, from many vistas inside the park, all you see are trees lining the horizon and it feels like you’re in the country while in Central London.

Another cabbie had pointed out on one of our trips passing by “where Diana lived until she died ...” Kensington Palace. We eventually found ourselves in sight of the Palace and also the George Frederic Watts’ “Physical Energy” (a man on his horse) which looks out at part of the Palace.

As we got closer, there were some adults – mommies and daddies -- teaching some little boys (four year olds) how to play Cricket. Just beyond them there were some much older boys (20- thru 40- something) having a game of football on the ground immediately adjacent to the Palace.

Top left: A statue of the young Queen Victoria, executed by her daughter, Princess Louise, which sits on a side lawn of the palace where the Queen grew up. The Palace has been in the British Royal Family since the 17th century. Besides Diana living here with her boys (and with Prince Charles when he was around), Princess Margaret also lived here as do the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, the Duke and Duchess of Kent, Prince and Princess Michael of Kent, and it has also been used “unofficially” by Prince Harry and his cousin, Princess Anne’s daughter Zara Phillips.

The Sunken Garden at Kensington Palace was laid out during the very brief reign of Edward VIII (later duke of Windsor) .It recreates a pre-existing 17th century garden. You can actually hire it out for a dinner party, a wedding reception, a meeting or a lunch. It is intimate and secluded and beautiful and right next to the Palace.

Built in the early 18th century in the village of Kensington for Earl of Nottingham and known as Nottingham House, it was acquired by William III (William and Mary) because he needed palace closer to London than Hampton Court which was a boat ride away from the then tiny city of London, and something far enough away of the smoking, teeming city since he was asthmatic. Later when Buckingham Palace (and closer to the city) was acquired for a palace, Kensington was set aside for family members which is how Victoria and her mother – the Duchess of Kent – lived until 1837 when she was awakened there one morning in June (right about now) to be told she was queen. Somewhere in her reign the powers that planned these things decided to tear it down and build something else in its place. Uh-uh, or something like it, said the Queen and it remained as a “palatial” shelter for her relatives et al.

Right: The North side of Kensington Palace. The Palace has several wings, one of which is open to the public and has the public and private rooms of George II and Queen Caroline, as well as the bedroom in which the Princess Victoria was awakened that morning. We toured these although we could have used more time because there is much to see and it is easily accessible to see. Although there were others touring the Palace at the same time, it was a very small crowd for such a historical monument.

Some of Diana's gowns.

A pannier, worn at court in the 18th century.

The King's Staircase at Kensington Palace.

The Cupola Room designed by William Kent in 1722. The musical clock in the center once played the music of Handel, Corelli, and Geminiani.

Princess Victoria's bedroom where she was awakened three weeks after her eighteenth birthday and told that her uncle William IV had died and she was now Queen.

The Kings Gallery, last used by George II as a monarch's reception room.

A family playing cricket outside the Main Entrance to Kensington Palace.

Looking out toward Knightsbridge Road.

After our tour of the Palace, we headed back to Brown’s in Albemarle Street to meet our friend Peter Evans for tea. Peter is the man who wrote “Nemesis,” which if you haven’t read yet, it is still available in paperback and don’t expect to read a few pages before you take a break. It is about Aristotle Onassis and Jackie Kennedy and Maria Callas and Robert Kennedy and his assassination and his and Onassis’ bitter loathing of one another which started long before his brother Jack died. It is currently in production as a play written by Martin Sherman (“Bent”) and opening in Chicester before it comes to the West End.

The Donavan Bar named for celebrated British photographer Terry Donovan (and hung with his images).

Peter Evans, author of "Nemesis" in the English Tea Room of the hotel.

At five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, the hotel's public rooms are jammed. The English love their tea time (often accompanied by a flute of champagne or other drinks). This is accompanied by the "crumpets" which nowadays is like a light lunch or a very big light lunch depending on how much of it you consume. The place is (quietly) jumping. There's a tinkling piano in the next room and the rattle and chatter of the voices of people enjoying their leisure, drinks and morsels.

Peter and I had the English breakfast, JH the fresh mint tea. This is accompanied by the traditional piece de resistence, if you'll pardon the French.

Under the bottom plate is the fresh jam and clotted cream. Followed by the sandwiches: ham and cheese, tomato and egg, cucumber and cream cheese, and smoked salmon. Followed by the fresh scones -- not like the scones we get in America -- these are small and tender (and warm) inside. The jam or clotted cream turns you into a glutton. Pass the champagne please.

If this all looks incredibly delicious, then you're getting the picture. The tea is served on Saturdays between 1 and 6 pm and during the week between 3 and 6 pm. and the clientele includes professionals, men and women, friends meeting, old pals catching a few minutes together. They come from the guest registry and from the outside, just for these perfect moments. The year that Victoria became Queen, James Brown, formerly a butler of Lord Byron, and his wife who was Lady Byron's maid, opened the first ever hotel in London. Alexander Graham Bell made the first ever phone call from the hotel. 175 years later it is still going strong. The Roosevelt Presidents, Franklin and Teddy, both honeymooned there and stayed there. Rudyard Kipling wrote "The Jungle Book" there. Agatha Christie wrote "At Bertram's Hotel" there. And NYSD wrote three Diary entries -- all while staying there. In 2005 Sir Rocco Forte did a 24 million pound renovation and so it's 117 rooms and suites and restaurants and bars seem like an old English hotel and at the same time have all the conveniences of 21st century life as well as very efficient service. Excellent service any hour.

At Brown's, we had a "junior suite," a double (those are two rather large beds with extremely comfortable mattresses); with large sitting area, as well as a small ante room with desk, a very large walk in closet and complete fabulous European bathroom with separate shower.

I'm checking my Blackberry, I am loathe to admit. Oy, it's got me too.

Joe Armstrong told me before we left for London to see "God of Carnage" which this person said was The HOT Play of the season on the West End.

Outside and inside the Gielgud Theater for "God of Carnage."

Hot play, hard ticket to get, but our concierge at Brown's came up with two very good seats on the mezzanine (almost a moment's notice). That's Mr. Fiennes, Mr. Stott, Ms. McTeer, and Tamsin Greig taking their bows. After we'd ordered the tickets I then heard from more than one person that it wasn't all that good and that the second part was slow. Oh well. So we go. And we're sitting there (the playwright, a French woman named Yasmina Reza (well sorta French). The play was also "translated" by Christopher Hampton which the savvy ones see as a kind of "doctoring." Someone else told me that. Having run the gamut of opinions and attitudes, I didn't know what to expect, or rather, didn't expect much. It opened to that one set you see. The red on red on red, and these four characters having a quiet serious conversation about their respective pre-pubescent sons who'd had a run-in with each other.

Mr. Fiennes, Mr. Stott, Ms. McTeer, and Tamsin Greig taking their bows.

You listen intently and you wonder what the hell is going to keep you from falling asleep or walking out. And then BAM, it begins to happen. It erupts into a give and take on the state of (these) people's relationships, marriages, lives, wishes, dreams and realities. It's so serious, so intense but I found myself unable to stifle my laughter, my guffaws, almost out of control. For a brief moment there I felt like the only one in the theatre who was laughing and therefore. ... did I get what I was watching? But then many others seemed to be pick up a roar here and there and like the Saturday night Fights, this play just took off into the realm of Virginia Woolf meets Lucy and Desi. I loved it. It is very serious, incidentally. But aren't we all? And the actors are wonderful, and the play is a great 90 minutes (no intermission) in the theatre. Thank you all.

Post-theater dinner at Bentley's: JH's fish and chips & DPC's Dover Sole Meuniere with peas and potatoes. Both delicious.

After the show, we emerged from the Gielgud into a light rain. It was Fish and Chips time. We decided to go back to Brown's and ask the nighttime concierge for something, anything, nearby. He suggested Bentley's which was a short walk away. He called to find out if they were still serving ... they were. In fact, there were no vacant tables when we arrived, so we got a place at the bar -- a beautiful marble bar. It's a very traditional 18th century style decor of a fish house. Someone told me later that Bentley's and Wiltons are the two best fish houses in London. JH got his Fish and Chips which he pronounced Very Good and I went back to the same-ole-same-ole Dover Sole Meuniere with peas and potatoes and a glass of very good Spanish wine.

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