More museums, no pies

We all get to pick at least one activity when on holiday. Dolores's choice was the Victoria and Albert. She'd wanted to visit it for years. Unsure that it would impress the kids much, I decided to take them to the Science Museum over the road.

Our day started at Cafe Polski. Me and the kids. For breakfast. It's not actually called Cafe Polski, but it seems a fair enough name. There's a pretty Polish girl serving. London can be an expensive city. But not for breakfast. It only cost a tenner for a big cooked meal for all three of us. Filled with a high-carb breakfast, the kids could coast on sandwiches the rest of the day. Saved us a fortune.

In South Kensington we split up and arranged to regroup 90 minutes later in the Zetland Arms. A pub that, despite the "Over 21's only" sign, does let kids in.

Kids in school uniform were swarming around the entrance of the Science Museum. I wasn't sure if that were a good or a bad sign.

My kids were suitably impressed by the giant steam engines in the first hall. There was even one under steam. The only working steam engines I've seen before were the model one my dad built and the miniature one in Brauerei Schmitt. The ones in the Science Museum were a good bit bigger. In fact the scale models of them on display were as big as Schmitt's.

In the adjacent rocket/space travel room, Andrew was immediately drawn to the display on Peenemünde. "It says they've got an ME 163 on the third floor." he told me excitedly. I wouldn't mind seeing one of those myself. An aircraft that was possibly a greater risk to its pilot than the enemy, given its tendency to spontaneously explode. The film of one taking off was impressive. It climbed vertically like, well, a rocket.

After a quick look at the materials exhibition (the bomber jacket that looked like it was made out of brillo pads is possibly the most impractical piece of clothing I've ever seen) on the first floor, we went looking for the ME 163. The museum hadn't looked that big on the map. You'd think that a hall big enough to house two dozen fullsize aircraft would be easy to find. It wasn't.

The Me 163 was tiny, little more than a wing. The Vickers Vimy bomber Alcock and Brown flew the Atlantic in dwarfed it. Funny how little credit they get for the first non-stop flight across the Atlantic. Guess they were the wrong nationality.

Our time was up and we'd barely seen 10% of the museum. But when Andrew complains about his knees aching, I know it's time to leave. We bumped into Dolores 100 metres from the Zetland. Surprisingly, it isn't a Greene King pub. The four handpumps offered Sharpe's Doom Bar, London Pride, Blueberry Bitter and Greene King Abbot. I wonder why they didn't have the IPA? I love a proper, authentic IPA. I ordered a pint and a half of Doom Bar. Halfway through pulling the pint the Polish barman gave up and turned the pump clip around. "It's off." he said. "Pint and a half of Blueberry Bitter then, please."

"Is this Bitter?" Dolores asked. The Golden Bitter revolution has passed her by. She expects her Bitter to be amber. I'd wondered about the name. It couldn't really have blueberries in it, could it? Despite the very pale colour, it tasted as if it could have. At least it was 5% ABV. Could have been worse. But I prefer my Bitter fruit-free. "You're a traditionalist." Hang on, I haven't said "You can call me a traditionalist" yet. Wait for your cue, please.

The Zetland Arms is one of those pubs that still has a pub theme. You'd be surprised how many don't nowadays. "You're old-fashioned." What did I say about waiting for your cue? I quite like pubs that bear some resemblance to a pub.

What to drink next? Much as I like a drop of proper IPA, I opted for London Pride. I feel I owe it to John Keeling to drink some of his beer. Just over three quid for a pint. I suppose that's normal for London. It shows how much a foreigner I've become in the land of my birth that I'm shocked every time I have to pay more than a quid for a pint.

I had a bit of a thirst after all that walking around looking at things. And the Pride was remarkably drinkable. I was on my third when Dolores got back from Tesco's with Lexie. They'd only been gone 15 minutes.

Despite having received a shiny, new flippy-top for my birthday, I had to take my notes on paper. Lexie was using the computer. I checked what he'd written. "You've mis-spelled 'bastard', Lexie." I wasn't sure of his ability to spell the F-word. He'd asterisked out all but the first letter.