Lost in London route for GPS

We started at Tower Bridge because it's the most easterly (if I ignore Dartford, which I do) and worked west. We crossed from the south, with a view of the Tower of London on the left. London Bridge was next, but there's no way onto it from the road by the river so, as we had to go through the city, we decided to head north to Aldgate, then swing past the Gherkin and Lloyds.

Turning left out of Leadenhall Street we carried on along Gracechurch and onto London Bridge. There have been many bridges here in the past, and yes, they used to fall down, or sink, or catch fire. The previous one was sold to an American in 1968 and it was widely rumoured, though denied, that he thought he was buying Tower Bridge. Whatever happened, I have to admire the London council's chutzpah in selling something they were about to demolish for a million pounds.

South of the river again, we headed straight for Southwark Bridge, passing The Globe Theatre where badly behaved children are sent to stand in the rain for three hours watching one of Shakespeare's more obscure histories. Over the bridge and left onto Upper Thames St, the first building on the left belongs to The Worshipful Company of Vintners that once controlled wine imports from France. Now they are best known for owning a third of the swans on the Thames and for the last 900 years, in the third week of July, they row the Thames catching, tagging and releasing them. Public service lives on.

I (or my satnav) missed the turning into Puddle Dock so we carried on to Temple Place, most famous for a curious house once owned by William Astor, one time richest man in America, who was wealthy enough to indulge some minor eccentricities including faking his own death to avoid publicity; the ruse only lasted a day, after which he got even more attention. After looping around at Temple I didn't get lost again and made it onto Queen Victoria Street. Passing the church of St Andrew by the Wardrobe (don't ask) we turned left along Friday Street and onto Cannon Street to admire St Paul's as it chimed in the moonlight. The rest of this part of the city was dead empty, the aliens had stolen everyone away while the night watchmen were drinking their tea. We didn't feel like sightseeing the Old Bailey or the stock exchange, so headed directly to Blackfriars Bridge.

Blackfriars has a certain charm, despite the notorious murder of Roberto Calvi here, apparently by the Mafia; he was found hanging from an arch with bricks in his pockets. Next up was Waterloo Bridge, where in 1978 Georgi Markov was killed by the Bulgarian secret service using a poisoned pellet fired into his leg from an umbrella.

North of the river again we diverted into the West End where we finally found some signs of life. It was late and we'd missed the theatre crowds, but there were still enough around to admire the car. A few weeks before a black Lambo had driven past and not a single jaded seen-it-all Londoner seemed to notice but a yellow Nomad got everyone's attention; perhaps it was the Santa Claus hat I was wearing, or the fairy lights wrapped around the spare wheel. Even the tricycle rickshaw riders, notoriously tough to impress, declared it a 'cool ride.' And there were enough passers-by for traffic light chats, which divided into those that wanted to discuss the car and those that wanted to climb in.

We took the Strand to Trafalgar Square, up Charing Cross Road and over to Seven Dials, where seven roads converge on a column with six sundials. Never mind. Out of Seven Dials and onto Shaftesbury Avenue, we went past the theatres until we turned right into Wardour St to cut through Soho. Eventually we slipped out onto Regent St and, beneath the tasteful decorations, swung down to Piccadilly Circus.

We meant to take the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, but it was closed, as it can be at random times, so we went down St James and along Piccadilly to the Wellington Arch. Then it was Constitution Hill to the darkly deserted Palace and Birdcage Walk to Westminster. Even the protestors in front of parliament had gone home, and only the occasional walking dead (or staggering drunk) could be seen. So with a final nod to the London Eye we slipped over Westminster Bridge, where the river glided at its own sweet will, and headed home.