The Ripper wears Prada?

On Thursday I was so excited to go on the Blood and Tears tour that I got to the meeting point about an hour early. It's over in the area of St. Paul's Cathedral, but that's not a place you rush through, so instead I ducked into the Museum of London for a quick look-around. Turns out it's much more than a few dinky dioramas of paleolithic Londoners or grubby Dickens-era Cockneys; although, suiting the mood of the day's main event, there were plenty of human skulls on display, along with a lead coffin and female skeleton from the 4th century, and dramatic exhibits on the Royal Exchange and jewel-encrusted hair ornaments. Honestly, though, the place seems nice to just amble through, stopping at whatever catches your eye -- you're bound to learn a fun fact or two. And, like all of these state-run museums, it's free.

But let's be honest, ancient stone tools dug up in Cheapside a few decades back just do not hold the same intrinsic excitement as, say, Jack the Ripper. And let me tell you something about this Blood and Tears tour, which has been going for five years -- the guide, Irishman Declan McHugh, knows everything about Jack, not to mention the equally sick Dr. Thomas Neill Cream (whose story, previously unfamiliar to me, was particularly scary), and everyone's favorite barber and subject of his own musical, Sweeney Todd. And a whole lot of other gruesome stories about the financial district of London, which used to host open-air, large-scale animal slaughter at the Smithfield Meat Market (scary if you're a vegetarian) and the notorious Newgate Prison, site of public excecutions and escape attempts until 1868.

McHugh packs so many stories into these fast-paced two hours (really fast-paced: smokers beware), and weaves his eager listeners in and out of dark, dank alleys as he reveals his gloomy repertoire, often quoting the killers or their contemporaries with excellent effect. Because I went on the afternoon tour, I was lucky enough to have the energetic guide all to myself (the evening tour, understandably, draws a bigger crowd) -- which meant that when I didn't know the answers to questions about London's bloody history, I couldn't hide behind some obnoxious true-crime fanatic. However, it also meant that when McHugh leaned in, looked straight at me, and started deconstructing some psycho's character, it was freaky. That said, he did often ask me to imagine how our next location would be very "creepy at night," and he's right -- so go on a night tour, if you go. There will be a few more people, but you will be glad they're there. Shiver, shiver.

That night I was horrified for a whole different reason, when I took a stroll through Knightsbridge, home of Harrods, on my way to meet my aunt and uncle, who are in town. There was no pleasant-looking, evil-soulled businessman ready to kill -- well, maybe there was; there were plenty of businessmen about -- but instead there was a line of stores that I couldn't believe could all thrive next door to each other: Gucci. Prada. Dior. Ferre. Chanel. Versace. I was in the land of the ridiculously high disposable income. These people exist! They're real!