Old York

York is so unlike Newcastle: more orderly, cleaner, on a smaller scale, more boring: I am too young for the quaint cuteness it exudes. Give me some buzz, plase. Betty’s tea rooms and cakes were exquisite, though.

A specialist (I don’t know what you call the scientists studying floods, coasts, rivers and the like) told us that York is the UK’s New Orleans waiting to happen: too much flooding too frequently. Which reminds me: where is the uprising, the rebellion, the insurrection? Hasn’t the federal government of the United States criminally betrayed the people of Louisiana before and after the disaster? Ah, just the poor. Ok, then.

Back to York, I walked up the spiral of the 270-something narrow high stone steps to the top of the York Minster tower. I had to stop to catch my breath, it was also that it made me claustrophobic. The view from above was good. Pictures coming soon.

What else? Ah, yes. The room in my Bed-and-Breakfast is clean, cosy and comfortable. The staff are polite and smiling and not co-extensive to the family owning it. Wow. But, no shower gear in my room. So, I am taking baths. That’s generally ok (after six years here, one gets used to the idea, if not the practice itself), but the prospect of washing my hair in there strikes me as, at least, unsavoury.

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