I suppose it was only to be expected, really.
In 1865, Mr. Dodgson set the bar for British tea parties.
Since he immortalised the great British institution in story, the Great British Institution has become synonymous in my mind with outlandish hats and absurd circumstances, though I dare say our jokes are of a somewhat higher calibre.
Dodgson can’t really be held responsible for the hats; just look at the royal wedding. But for fantastical circumstances surrounding the consumption of my afternoon tea and cakes… that I lay entirely at his door.
Really, how else can you explain having a bus diverted on the way to tea by a pipe and drum corps, a dozen revolutionary-era redcoats with assorted hangers-on, and great long parade of horses coming up the Royal Mile from Parliament?
Down at the foot of the hill, by the Queen’s Gallery, there’s a small street sign I hadn’t noticed before.