An American Hears London

Bussing in from Stansted, we saw a sign in an apartment complex yard: "No exercising of dogs." A more elegant euphemism for "Leash, gutter, and clean up after your dog," My son leaned over and said, "Hmm, how about roasting of dogs?" I'm more accustomed to directness, as in:

Language can be more lyrical here. Consider this bus announcement: "For Great Ormond Street hospital alight at Russell Square." Sounds more poetic than "Get off at . . . " 
"You'd never hear that," I said to my son. "In Romantic poems, Sparrows alight on branches."
"Gimme a light," he replied. As we ambled toward the British museum and I explained the controversy surrounding the Elgin Marbles, he summed it all up: "How the Greeks lost their marbles." Around here, the F word is pronounced with an "o" instead of a "u," that is, rhymes not with "luck" but with "cock," as in "Cockfosters." Wikipedia suggests family names or "chief forester" as the origin of that one, but it sounds like a Prince Albert to me.  We walked through (should I say "trod?") Knightsbridge, Piccadilly, Belgravia, and the best of all, Camden Town ("Help a punk get drunk" said the sign around which sat certain inebriated young persons with neon hair, braying same message). In Belgravia I kept muttering, "my God, Prada is no longer Prada (hairy newsboy hats with bolts, day-glo felt handbags) and "Laura Ashley is no longer Laura Ashley," (synthetics, synthetics, synthetics) but in Camden Town I bought a gorgeous vintage Indian Kantha and some wool-and-silk Pashmina scarves. While listening to Joy to the World (or was it "Hot Child, summer in the city . . .") at a jewelry stand and Dinah Washington while scooping up a sturdy leather knapsack for my son. Amazing leather.  A-whole-lot-better-than-Coach-bags-leather. When I asked for help with a scratch on the perfect bag I'd bought in Rome, I heard Imperial British English, the kind German gymnasium teachers swoon over, from an elderly gentleman of Indian descent. Oh, enjoy Camden town. Belgravia is all snobbery and repression (burquad women in Dior sunglasses being shepherded from limo by driver to butler-in-store). Wifi didn't work as we sought a Chipotle, which we obviously weren't going to find around there. 
The languages, from neighborhood to neighborhood, are fun, but London is the loudest city I've ever been in: street noise in Westminster and Bloomsbury, from drills to horns to sirens, is enough to make you plug your ears with your fingers and howl in pain. But when the British speak, they are so interesting. It's not just the accents. I asked for Miller and Bens tap shoes in five stores, and the clerks (that word rhymes with "harks" around here) seemed genuinely sad they couldn't help me: "I'm so sorry!" they chirped.