This was our first day in London, and I was jetlagged and barely conscious. Rachel and I had made the colossal mistake of flying British Airways. Unless you can fork over $17,000+ (I'm not exaggerating here) to sit in Moste Royal Grand Supreme Circumnavigation Classe, or whatever they call it, DO NOT fly British Airways. Even Rachel, who's a good half a foot shorter than I am, was in serious pain from the shallow seat pitch. And I had the bad luck to be seated next to a gentleman with a strapping, Popeyeian build, which required his right arm, buoyed by overworked pectorals, to occupy half my seat at all times. I found that being elbowed in the ribs for eight hours, while simultaneously taking Mafia-informant-worthy blows to my kneecaps from the seat in front of me, was not conducive to sleep.

[photo by Rachel]

Nevertheless, the Faraday Museum woke me up a bit. If the look of shock on the Royal Institution receptionist's face when we bought two tickets is any indication, the museum isn't exactly beseiged by patrons, which is a shame. Galvanometers! Leyden jars! Giant magnets! A replica of Faraday's lab! All it lacks is a nice gymnotus specimen.

I was ecstatic, of course.

Near the Tower of London, Rachel met someone tall, dark, handsome and imperious.