I went to London to see Quartet in Autumn, based on the book by Barbara Pym. I had earned enough Avanti points for a first class ticket: a slightly cushier seat and the option to order from a compact but adequate food and drink menu. I was the only passenger in the car, alone with my bacon sandwich and tea in a very tall narrow ceramic mug. Alone until a conductress came in with a small, extremely pale young woman who was settled in the corner, offered a cup of tea, and told not to worry when she said she hadn't paid for a first class ticket.

I slowly learned from their conversation that she was very nervous about the trip she was taking to meet some friends in Eastbourne. She hadn't brought her phone and supplied a variety of reasons as to why she couldn't get in touch with her husband. "Oh you have a baby?" said the conductress, a distinct "Dear Lord" note in her voice when that datapoint emerged. "How do you like being a mum?". "I find it quite hard," said the passenger. Nothing to be done until we got to London, no decisions having to be made, and as the woman continued to dither about whether to continue on to Eastbourne the conductress told her she could take her time and think about it until the train had to turn back up north.

We arrived and the woman took my offered granola bar. Another conductress sat with the woman while the first mouthed "KEEP HER TALKING". When we were out of earshot, she told me the woman had produced a ticket when she came through to check them, but then she had asked so many questions that something had seemed off about her. While we were moving she'd called ahead to the police. I passed them as I went up the ramp to the station.

First stop after this eventful journey was the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow. Nice park to sit in for the half hour before it opened, watching the tennis players and upwardly mobile parents of North London pushing strollers. The gallery had an exhibit on female designers at Liberty and a permanent exhibit about Morris's work. There was an interactive display where you could simulate decisions about designers, product lines, and distribution channels and see which led to a successful business; my performance suggested that I should not go into the tile and wallpaper business. It was nice (and free) but I think his home, The Red House, would be more interesting. Sadly, tours books out months in advance and I will likely not see it before our departure. List of things I will have to catch on another visit is mounting.

Arsenal was playing PSG for the Champions League final. The game started at 5 but lines were forming in front of pubs at 10am. On to Highgate, I learned my lesson after skipping it in March and getting FOMO. I got a tour for an extra 10 GBP which made for an informative and unsettling experience. The cemetary is covered with dense, barely controlled vegetation that was almost entirely self-seeded over decades of neglect when the plots had all been sold and there was no more money coming in. Some parts are blocked off because roots have grown enough to topple the monuments.

The guide pointed out Alexander Litvinenko and George Michael, among many others; Marx is there but he was too far away to cover in the tour. Mention of hand-sized rare cave dwelling spiders found in the mausoleums. He took us into the crypt where some of the coffins have deteriorated so much that the bones have come tumbling out. I did not catch a glimpse of the skull sitting on a shelf as some did. I made sure I was not at the back of the line when we were filing out.

The guide went longer than the hourish I was expecting but it was worth every penny and minute. The Arsenal fans were now out in even greater numbers. What were they doing? Communing. Made it to the theatre with just enough time to get a water and a pack of Skilttles, which was good because it was extremely warm inside. There had been some reconfiguration of the seats, and it took a few rounds of shuttling between entrances and a reprinted ticket before I was settled. A woman behind me fanned herself throughout the performance while wearing what sounded like the sextuplet offspring of a bangle and a xylophone, clang clang clang. Play wasn't bad but they could have leaned into the pettiness a little more.

Met up with F, who lived down the hall from me when I was at Sussex. The Arsenal fans precluding any hope of getting a seat elsewhere, we went to Dan's, a wine bar. F was never one for sentimental niceties. "I really don't like Manchester at all!", he replied when I gave the spiel about what we were doing in England. But it wasn't all gloom. Maybe it was the wine on a stomach lined with nothing more than Skittles and a PBJ on the bus ride from the cemetary, but it was the first time since I got here that a conversation veered toward what the hell is up with America RN that I wasn't desperate to redirect, including detailed comparison of desis in the Republican and Reform parties. Most English people who talk to me about American politics seem to feel a degree of relish for how awful we are because it makes them feel like, now really, they were never as bad as that. F meanwhile did not describe Britain as the utopia of tolerance and multiculturalism that a lot of very well-meaning white people here see it. I meanwhile realized with some discomfort that it was the longest conversation I've had with a non-white English person since I got here.

Time to go. F said that he was very unlikely to ever be in Boston. "I might be able to catch you if you're in New York!" I said, prompting him subtly convulse with alarm. First class car was more full but less eventful than my morning journey. Cheese plate a bit skimpy but GF crackers very much appreciated in my heightened state. Arsenal lost, but it was about the friends we made along the way.