So, Saturday was Jon’s stag night. We were all due to meet up in All Bar One in Chicheley Street, near to the London Eye, at 3.30. I got to Waterloo, the nearest tube station, at 2.30pm. Deliberately. I don’t often go to London. When I do, it tends to be for meetings and things like that, so I’m caught for time. This time, I arrived an hour early so I could have a little wander around the South Bank, the bit of London with the Houses of Parliament and the world’s biggest Ferris wheel. I care not that the site there reckons that it is not technically a Ferris wheel. Perhaps we should just call it the London Folly and be done with it, but I fear that the Millennium Tent may hold that distinction unto eternity. Anyway, it was an impressively sunny day, so I got to walk around with my hands in my pockets and admire the area. It’s very clean. Pretty, too. It must be difficult to think of squalor and riots when you walk out of your place of work into this area of calm and niceness. I walked into the pub and a rather harried barmaid asked, in a rush of words, what I wanted to drink, apologising for keeping me waiting. “It’s Saturday,” I said. “It’s the weekend. I’m in no rush.” Sadly, she didn’t hear me the first time, but repeating it got me a smile.