People:
Tom Mercer: Henry and I go out for a beer with Tom after work. The two of them came and worked on the ranch on their gap year when I was 7, and so after they regale me with stories of their experiences (that I then would have been to young to really understand, especially the horrific things they did in San Francisco, better not to mention), I respond with stories about the way things are now, what has and hasn't changed on the ranch, with Tom and Mary and Fluffy and all the other things that consitute their memories of it. We have a great time, and they teach me a thing or two about how to do a gap year. And how not to.
The Parkes': I go over to see Gerald and Gabriela, two family friends who live in Notting Hill with two adorable babies (lots of babies on this trip). We drink champagne and decorate the Christmas tree and share stories and they tell me about their house in Mallorca, one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Places:
I go to a Cartoon Museum, in Covent Gardens, a funny little place that track the history of newspaper cartoons from their origination to the present, including some unbelievably funny satire, and a fascinating look at what, say people in Victorian England found amusing. Suffice it to say I don't get their sense of humor. Luckily, times have changed in that respect.
I go to the British Library, a massive, ultra-modern building where hundreds of people read or study in an ideal environment. It is home to the Kings Collection, a glass enclosed tower of the great books, accessed only by the royals. It also houses treasures like the only surviving copy of Beowulf, an original Canterbury Tales, and original Folios by Shakespeare, including hand written manuscripts from everyone from Beethoven to Da Vinci to Dickens. There is an exhibit on the developement of the English language that I find utterly fascinating. It tracks the developement of the language from the Canterbury Tales to modern Text Messaging, and the highlight is a clip played from My Fair Lady where Elizah proclaims where the rain falls in Spain. It is brilliant and enlightening, to say the least.
On a recommendation from Whitney, I go to the Burough Market, a fantastically Christmassy wonderland of the ultimate cuisine, gather from all over England, as well as France and Italy. Roasted animals, fresh mince pies, fresh milk and cream and applesauce and mountains of little chocolates, bottles of olive oil and jars of beautiful jams, buckets full of mulled wine and cider, the scent of christmas trees and gingerbread and pastry dough and cinnamon. I eat a pork sandwich and a mince pie, and float decadently through heavan.

Shows:
I go to see the Messiah. Not only that, its at the Royal Albert Hall. Not only that, its Christmas-time. The vast, ornate hall of gilt patterns, red velvet, perfect symmetry and complex acoustic devices rings with the pure notes of Handel's iconic Oratorio. Everyone stands for the Hallelujah Chorus, clapping wildly as the choir of five hundred (!!!!) proclaims their joy. The orchestra delicately frames the long vocal solos, and the exceedingly simple and yet breathtakingly ornate harmonies and rounds fills the air with glory especially when the trumpet brightly stated the coming of the Savior. The Amen, the final piece, which lasts five minutes on a single word, is spectacular. In fact, the whole things is exceptional, and unparalleled, once in a lifetime experience of spectacular music, in a spectacular venue, by a spectacular group. Each vast chord resounded easily up into the heavens.
I see Les Miserables, an iconic musical which I have never seen, despite the fact that it is one of my favorite books. Delightfully light and bright, it delivers everything promised by a West End Musical, including drama and color and light and spectacle. The melodies are delightful and the story touching and I am left with a much brighter though less profound joy than I was given by the Messiah.
I see Birdsong, a stage adaptation of a fantastic book, that brings crashing home a powerful message and some horrifying images of WWI. The blood, the roar of the shells, the blatant tragedy, will not leave my vision, my ears, or my mind as I wander forlornly back to Clapham. The show is barely comparably to the book, but seeing the powerful words and images physicalized is desperately beautiful and moving.
I see Shakespeare's King Lear. It is easily the best Shakespeare production I have ever seen, performed with force and eloquence and encompassing the vast tragedy of age and betrayal and madness. Each role is brilliantly played, the story is one of the greatest ever written, and the words are flawless, perhaps Shakespeare's best. The costumes are simple, the set is bare, the wind of the winter storm roars across the stage, and I cringe in fear as the sad king goes mad and his friends blood is splattered across the wall.
In case you are interested Ben Barnes (of Chronicles of Narnia) starred in Birdsong and Derek Jacobi (one of the worlds great Shakespearean film and stage presences) starred in Lear.

A few other things:
On the way to the theater I see a classic sight, a definitive image of Knightsbridge. Everyone's trash is on the curb to be picked up, and one person's trash is wrapped exclusively in Harrod's bags. I don't know whether to be amused or apalled.
I stand in line for cheap tickets to Lear at 7oclock in the morning, and meet the Theater Fanatics of London, a bizarre group of theater fans from Portugal, Australia, Chicago, and Manchester (among others), ranging in age from 16 to 60 and having only one thing in common: a desperate love for theater and Shakespeare. Enough love to stand out in the cold to see this show. Enough love to talk avidly for 3 hours to their fellow theater fans, recalling favorite shows, performances, characters, and scripts. I sit next to a few of them and we chat amiably about how excellently choreographed the mass murder in Act 5 was.