Dr Johnson would have us believe that 'when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life'. Tired or not, there are probably more inspiring sights than Euston station at 10.00 in the morning, particularly when the capital's famously gluttonous pigeons are trying to eat your map. Still, after shooing away a couple of the more corpulent birds, I was pleased to discover that the heart of Bloomsbury was a mere ten minute walk away. Buoyed by the prospect of exploring one of Europe's great capitals without having to employ my rudimentary knowledge of GCSE French, I set off down the snappily entitled Museum Mile in search of London's untapped secrets.
Given the evident wealth of Bloomsbury's residents, my quest for a cheap mid-morning snack seemed doomed to failure. George Orwell had a point when he moaned that 'it costs money even to sit down' in London. Fortunately, it doesn't cost an arm and a leg for a mid-morning pick-me-up in Noto, a sushi shop towards High Holborn. In the time it took me to differentiate between a prawn nigiri and a salmon maki, about half a dozen people had all ordered the miso soup. On this recommendation, I bought a cup of it to go with my fish and enjoyed a hearty(ish) snack for under a fiver. My meal was only marred by the bizarre Japanese candy I bought on leaving, which had the consistency of cookie dough and felt like chewing an apple-flavoured squash ball. Suitably refuelled, I strolled past Holborn tube station and into Lincoln's Inn Fields. This charming green square hosts the morbidly fascinating Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons, and the brilliantly eccentric Sir John Soane's Museum. Soane, the architect who designed the Bank of England, converted his home into a gallery which houses the sarcophagus of the Egyptian Pharaoh Seti I alongside a formidable assortment of other exhibits, including works by Hogarth and Canaletto. The staff were warm and helpful, and every nook and cranny seemed to reveal another hidden gem in Soane's collection.
If Chinese porcelain is your thing, the understated Percival David Foundation of Chinese Art in Gordon Square is certainly worth a visit. Its slightly shabby decor has the feel of a kindly grandparent's front room, but it boasts a staggering array of oriental treasures over two floors.
Having spent the morning devouring all the culture London had to offer, it seemed like the right time to do the same to its sausages. A short tube ride out from Holborn to Liverpool Street took me into the realms of the Goode Olde Fashyned Sausage and Mashe Shoppe, and I quickly found the S&M Café on Brushfield Street. With its red and white checked tablecloths, glass ketchup bottles and Bird's Custard ads plastered on the walls, I felt like I'd been transported back to pre-war London. The sausages could have done with an extra couple of turns under the grill, but they provided a good square meal nonetheless. As I struggled with HP-sodden hands to pick up my camera, a guy at the next table leaned over and asked me if I was a photographer. Trying to hide the fact that I was trying to work out how to activate the flash, I nodded politely, and listened to his recommendations for some good shots: 'The old streets around here are a marvel. Just head straight towards the Church at the end of Brushfield and keep heading east. You'll see what I mean.'
I spent a happy hour in the Whitechapel exploring its airy galleries and poking around in the well-stocked bookshop before heading back in the direction of Liverpool Street and its surrounding labyrinth of lanes. In Hanbury Street I discovered Absolute Vintage, a veritable Aladdin's cave of a shop. With more than a thousand pairs of shoes on sale, and enough gaudy tracksuit tops to keep an entire squad of 1970s footballers happy, fashion fans were still fighting at the rails to get hold of some retro bargains as I headed for the tube.
The grime and noise at Tottenham Court Road station reminded me why Oxford Street should only be confronted by those with a pathological love of exhaust fumes. Dazed by the assault on my senses I wobbled off in the direction of Soho, and through the doors of Randall & Aubin on Brewer Street in search of a glass of something to settle my nerves. After some subtle lighting, a couple of glasses of champagne and half a dozen oysters, I almost felt ready to tackle Oxford Street again.
Attached to the Below Zero lounge and restaurant, the Absolut Icebar on Heddon Street is a vodka emporium with a difference: it's made out of ice. All of it. It seemed like a good idea when I slipped on my complimentary thermal poncho and donned my ski gloves, but after forty minutes of sipping on a 'Lapland Tundra' cocktail served in a hollowed out ice cube, the novelty began to wear off. Presumably this is where the Great Britain curling team recuperate between Winter Olympics when in town, but unless you come from an Inuit family, the whole experience will probably leave you cold. Really, really cold.
Always fond of an aphorism, Dr Johnson claimed that 'By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can shew.' He probably wasn't referring to the Roller Disco at King's Cross Freight Yard, but he might as well have been. The admission fee pays for a pair of skates and as much wheel-bound gyration as you can muster before gravity (or a day pounding the streets of London) catches up with you. I confess I lasted only a couple of hours, and was forced to retire after a particularly enthusiastic lycra-clad reveller decided to include me in his spectacular dance floor wipeout.
