Friday and a down day. A nice late start, too, which was much needed.

The plan, which was fully executed, was to take a bus ride up to Stamford Hill to have a look at a house that the good Mrs. Mayne had once visited (probably) because her auntie lived there in the 1960s. It’s lovely riding the bus, and thanks to the very real benefits of the London congestion charge, there are many buses out there, so you never have to wait long. They still come in packs, of course, but that’s just down to the traffic.

Stamford Hill is known for its Jewish community, and today being Friday there were many Jewish people on the streets in their traditional garb, all hurrying to get things done before their Sabbath Day, which starts at sundown. (I used the word Sabbath because I think the community we were visiting used a different Hebrew word to the usual Shabbat). The community there is pretty large, and clearly thriving, with most of the houses in the surrounding streets having visible Mezuzahs on their door posts. Kids were in the streets on their way home from school, and Hebrew (or Yiddish, I wouldn’t know which) seemed to be their conversational language. That’s just one more tongue we can add to the list of languages we’ve heard being spoken this week. That’s by no means a complaint, either, because the variety has been wonderful. Diversity is strength.

We found the house, and while we were stood looking at it, a man in a big BMW pulled up. He looked for all the world like the late entertainer, Mike Winters, and even spoke with a stage “Jewish” accent, but more than that he asked us if we were looking to sell our house because he could help if we were. He didn’t say “Oi vey”, but if he had I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Then we bussed ourselves back to Hackney Central station, using up pretty nearly all the credit on our Oyster cards in the process, and had a glorious fish and chip lunch in Suttons & Sons, in their tiny Dine In area. Sutton & Sons has a full vegan menu, so the missus was in seventh heaven.

Before walking back to the flat, we stopped into a small branch of the Co-op (pronounced Kwop if you’re a Devonian), and while there, a fellow was prevented from stealing a plastic bag full of booze by the quick-thinking staff. You sort of feel for people who need to steal, but this guy didn’t look particularly like he was homeless or anything. Still, you don’t know, do you? He got away, but without the booze, so I guess it ended as well as he could have expected, given that he could have been arrested had he been caught.

Back at the flat, we decompressed. For relaxation, I pulled the contents of the kitchen garbage bin out onto a piece of newspaper, looking for the Toronto Airport parking receipt that I thought I’d thrown away. Then I found it in my backpack. C’est la vie.

Now all we needed to do was to pack and hope that the car we booked to the airport for Saturday morning turned up.