Today I headed up to Bakers Street to get my other half’s friend his birthday present, since she’s unwell today (I know. I am an awesome girlfriend. A modest one too.)
It was a pretty quick visit, but if you’re a fan of the Beatles it’s heaven. Not that I don’t like them or anything, I just have more of a passing appreciation than the deep adoration so may possess.
Don’t hold that against me.
It’s in Bakers Street – didn’t see that one coming, did ya? – so one can head to the Sherlock Holmes museum, or get a bus to the zoo, or go to Camden, or…well you get the idea. The station is one of the more interesting ones, with images of Sherlock Holmes tiled onto the walls. It’s up there with the decor of Charing Cross and such.
It is hard to find at the moment, with all the roadworks and building renovations but most people would probably be able to point you in the right direction. I was wandering the wrong direction for a fair amount of time, unfortunately and embarrassingly. Having caught my other half’s bug, and feeling rather ill as well, I had a very public hissy fit.
This is not something anyone needs to witness. But they did. And if any one of them ever happens to read this blog…I was the small, red haired, stroppy woman with squint eye because of broken glasses and a stomping foot. And I apologise.
Any way head there for patches, lunch boxes, posters, hoodies, tshirts and other such insectile related goodness. I mean, Beatles goodness.
Peace out, off to rock ‘n’ roll in my yellow submarine…yellow submarine, yellow submarine…