We started the morning on a walkabout Kensington Park, not far from our hotel. Well truthfully, we started the morning at the local Oree’s drinking coffee and tea and enjoying our favorite croissants before heading out on our walk.

Tim is game to go along with whatever the day’s plan is as it means he doesn’t have to think about any details. His biggest lift is getting my suitcase up and down the stairs at the various train stations which often lack in handicap or ramp access. How do disabled people get around on the trains in the UK?

Yesterday’s plan was to visit an area of London known as Little Venice. Some say it was poet Robert Browning, who returned to Warwick Crescent from Italy after his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning died, who gave the canals the name “Little Venice.” Others say Lord Byron called it that as a joke. Anne Thackery Ritchie claimed the canals were imbued with a sense of endless romance. I suspect Ritchie was more the romantic than the waters, which could have benefitted from a good clean up. Too often tourists fail to make good use of well-placed bins.

Our walk to Little Venice began in Kensington Park, where we got distracted with watching young futballers playing. I was particularly taken with a group of what appeared to be 4-5-year-old kids chasing each other on the field. In the midst of the chaos was a group of men spread out across the field. One fella who kept yelling in his proper English accent was, I assumed, the coach. The others appeared to be fathers, perhaps uncles? The primary coach kept admonishing the boys to “spread out”. The boys, however, wanted to huddle like bees to a queen around whoever had the ball. And there was no instance in which boys were being called into the game – all boys were on the field at the same time playing alongside a gaggle of adult men, who were happily, some even eagerly, chasing the same ball. Futball is life in the UK.

What struck me most, however, was when time was when the coach called all the boys to gather round and then he began leading off rounds of applause – one for the mate who took the ball in his face, one for the mate who hustled all morning, one for the parents who joined in. As a coach’s wife, I’ve been to more games than I can possibly remember but this is the first time I’ve witnessed applauding after a practice, by both the kids and the adults.  

I didn’t get two blocks up the path when I encountered an older woman feeding the birds. I must say the crows are the size of large cats so I’m not sure they needed to be hand fed. They seem to do alright on their own, and park signs urge people to not feed the birds, still, I couldn’t help but think of the Julie Andrews song, Tuppence a Bag.

After our walkabout Little Venice, we made our way to the trains where we caught the South Kensington train for the Victoria & Albert Museum. Because it was Saturday, everyone was headed somewhere.

I can’t remember if it was at Piccadilly or prior to that, but somewhere along the way, a man who was obviously disgruntled boarded the already packed train. He appeared to be either inebriated or angry or mentally unstable or all three. His scraggly dark hair sat high off his forehead and hung down to his shoulders. His thick arms bore tattoos often associated with gang symbols. His aviator glasses hid his dark eyes. He looked like an aged Ozzy wannabe fan.

He was muttering constantly. I didn’t know if he was upset by the Muslim family sitting next to me, or the fullness of the train, or if he was just in need of a hot shower and a clean bed. People sitting nearby watched him worriedly when he began slapping the palm of one hand to the balled-up fist of his other. This was a repetitive motion that seemed to accentuate whatever had left him sorely disgruntled.

I never feel afraid in the crowds in the UK. It makes no difference if I am in a packed house at the Royal Albert Hall or sitting on a train as I am while typing this. The UK has put into place common sense gun laws. (And last night I heard a BBC announcer say that a man was being charged with outraging public decency, an actual law that comes with an unlimited fine and unlimited jail time. Oh, lord, if only we had such a law in the US, we could all file charges against Trump, Boebert, Gaetz, MTG, etc.)

Still, I could see that a handful of people making eye contact were nervous about the situation. At the very next stop, two men traveling together boarded the train and took seats next to the obviously distraught fellow. I assumed by their looks that the men must be brothers as they had very similar facial features, kind eyes and generous smiles.

It didn’t take the older one of the brothers to figure out the situation and what he did about it stunned me. He asked the fellow if they knew each other, to which the upset man replied no. Then the older brother offered his hand and his name to the tired old rock and roller and to my surprise the old feller offered his in return. Then for the remainder of the ride, the older brother engaged the Ozzy-has-been in a conversation about if he preferred sunny days like the ones we were having or rainy days. They talked about trains and places they’d been and things they’d done. Only once during that time did the unkempt fellow revert to his palm-slapping activity. And it was easy to see, his mood had changed. Not lightened necessarily but he felt seen and heard, perhaps for the first time in a long time.

Human kindness is a beautiful thing. I witnessed it several times yesterday and it cheered me.