“Halt! Who comes there?”
“Queen Elizabeth’s keys.”
“Pass then, and all is well.”
That is the exchange my dad and I heard last night at the Tower of London, which has been spoken nearly every night there for over 700 years (though obviously the monarch’s name has changed).
For the first May bank holiday weekend of 2018, we rented a car and drove southwest to Dorset, on the Jurassic Coast. The drive took us 4 hours, thanks to all the traffic of everyone else who wanted to get out of the city for the long weekend, and we arrived right at the girls’ bedtime on Friday night.
(Side note: The signs along the way made for interesting reading. Actual names of places in Dorset: Tincleton, Puddletown, Tolpuddle, Grimstone, Puncknowle, and Durdle Door.)
Our first concert at the Royal Albert Hall was also a film screening. Last weekend we went to see Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, which we’ve of course seen before, but this time it was accompanied by a full concert orchestra and 28-person choir.
Yes, this post is about how we spent New Year’s Eve. Better end of April than never, right?
My parents were once again amazing to keep the kids for us in London for a few days, so M and I escaped the darkness of the English winter and jetted to warmer, sunnier Mallorca (also spelled Majorca), a Spanish island.
Cough, cough. Is this thing on? [Blows off the dust]
“Can’t wait to read your Royal Birth blog post!” my mom texted me yesterday. Oh, right. I have a blog. I nearly forgot. We were in the States for the first two weeks of the month, and we’ve been just trying to get back into the swing of things here ever since.