CHARTING THE ROUTE

Another tactic paid off in ways I didn't expect.

As an advocate of geography lessons for grade-school types, before our trip I told Julian I'd count on him to serve as our navigator. London is a city I know reasonably well, so I confess this was a half-hearted assignment. But he took to the task like a fiend, and when I told him our first afternoon's destination, the London Eye, Julian scoured the map in search of the attraction.

''OK,'' he announced gravely, tracing his fingers along subway routes. ''We'll take the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square, then transfer to the Northern Line and get off at Waterloo.'' By the end of a week, it almost seemed the reason for our trip was to ride the Underground, interrupted by stops at assorted points of interest. And once I got him to memorize the name of our hotel and identified what a policeman looked like, I began to think if we became separated it wouldn't quite be the end of the world.

Chances of that happening were slim, thanks to a suggestion from a friend to clothe Julian in bright colors. When we positioned ourselves in the wrong spot to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace -- crowds swooped in and blocked Julian's view -- I was comfortable letting him roam the cordoned fountain area facing the palace to find the best perch. I could easily locate my lime green Julian illuminating this sea of drab.

Some things, though, can't be planned for, and in a couple of fundamental areas, I lucked out. As an only child, Julian is used to interacting with adults -- he's never a terror in restaurants and other stimulation-challenged settings. And he's a good eater, rarely having to be nudged to finish a salad or vegetable, and open to trying new things.

Well, most things.

Grilled English kipper?

``No thanks.''

How about some black pudding?

``No way!''

Lambs kidney on toasted doorstop?

``Eeeeww!''

Otherwise, the traditional English breakfast became the favored meal, and with its hearty dose of eggs, sausage, bacon, tomato, mushrooms and toast it took the pressure off midday snacks. Uncle Dave quickly discovered what most parents already know: Fancy restaurants aren't a high priority for a nine-year-old -- but pizza is. Sandwiches and soups from outlets like Pret A Manger (as ubiquitous and reliable as Starbucks) were perfectly fine -- and decidely affordable.

A SPOT OF TEA?

We did splash out on one occasion, for a proper English afternoon tea. Somehow, in my various trips to London, I've never imbibed in the tradition. But for this, the Ritz Hotel's Palm Court would induce me to put on jacket and tie, a policy that is thankfully relaxed for the 15-and-under set. As a pianist eased through standards and we were shown into the so-tasteful room, I quickly removed Julian's lime green number, concealing it behind a potted palm next to our table.

The kid must have had a formidable sermon on etiquette from his grandmother, for no sooner did we sit down than an unexpected reserve of manners blossomed. The napkin went into his lap without prodding, his back went upright. With budding aplomb, Julian surveyed a roomful of high society surrounded by pink marble and gold-leaf trim.

If he felt out of his element, Julian never let on.

The waiter approached with a selection of teas. A triple-level silver tower arrived containing a plate of cucumber, salmon and egg sandwiches, another of raisin scones warm from the oven, and a top deck brimming with pastries. One question had been on Julian's mind from the moment we arrived; I assured him our waiter would be a good person to ask.

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