London Calling
Off to London today, finishing Jeremy Page's book of short stories, London Calling on the way there. I loved it, and as Jeremy is about my age, (and had gone to Warwick too) I completely identified with some of his work. I sent him an email saying how much I'd enjoyed it. Also enjoying Louise Tondeur's collection, Unusual Places which I dip into from time to time.
I arrived at Victoria time to to pop into Tate Britain, where I at last got to use my membership card again. I glanced around at the Edward Burne-Jones exhibition, but I found I wasn't much in the mood for pre-Raphaelite malarkey. I went into the Turner Prize 2018, each of the artist doing a video installation, so utterly the wrong thing to pop into for a cheeky twenty minutes. I did get a proper laugh at some work by Charlotte Prodger, film of a stern of a ship at sea which made you feel woozy, looking at the sliding horizon. Suddenly there was voiceover, but so risibly pretentious that it made me burst into laughter. Luckily I was alone.
Upstairs for the Frasier and Niles Crane moment... Into the members area for a cup of coffee. I sat down with a sigh, and took out my book. I found myself within earshot of a woman talking without relentlessly to her silent friend like the mouth in Samuel Beckett's play Not I.
I walked along the river, passing the houses of parliament, and a borderline violent lucky heather seller. I watched in fascination as she grabbed at people, staring into their eyes. She did so to one Chinese man shouting, hospital! Hospital! At him.
I made my way to the Salisbury, where I met Mum. Had a quick drink and a chat there, before we mooched off to Gerrard Street, where we, with the help of Google, pinned down which building had been Ronnie Scotts when Mum worked there as a young hep cat (it was number 39). Mum then bought me lunch in the Four Seasons, where we chopsticked down some tucker. I had a really nice chat with Mum. I was moaning about being a bit in limbo at the moment, and she pointed out that I should enjoy it as I will soon be busy again. This was sage advice.
I decided to go home early in the afternoon rather than track anyone down for a networking booze, as my prime candidate was unavailable.
Home, and Lorraine had a much better day at work today. I rustled up some food and we watched Masterchef. Tom staying tonight, and we all chatted for a bit. Time for a early night.
Below a Pre-Raphaelite strip cartoon, the lone voice of reason on Whitehall, approaching the Houses of Parliament, and the mad woman scaring poor tourists into buying her heather.
I arrived at Victoria time to to pop into Tate Britain, where I at last got to use my membership card again. I glanced around at the Edward Burne-Jones exhibition, but I found I wasn't much in the mood for pre-Raphaelite malarkey. I went into the Turner Prize 2018, each of the artist doing a video installation, so utterly the wrong thing to pop into for a cheeky twenty minutes. I did get a proper laugh at some work by Charlotte Prodger, film of a stern of a ship at sea which made you feel woozy, looking at the sliding horizon. Suddenly there was voiceover, but so risibly pretentious that it made me burst into laughter. Luckily I was alone.
Upstairs for the Frasier and Niles Crane moment... Into the members area for a cup of coffee. I sat down with a sigh, and took out my book. I found myself within earshot of a woman talking without relentlessly to her silent friend like the mouth in Samuel Beckett's play Not I.
I walked along the river, passing the houses of parliament, and a borderline violent lucky heather seller. I watched in fascination as she grabbed at people, staring into their eyes. She did so to one Chinese man shouting, hospital! Hospital! At him.
I made my way to the Salisbury, where I met Mum. Had a quick drink and a chat there, before we mooched off to Gerrard Street, where we, with the help of Google, pinned down which building had been Ronnie Scotts when Mum worked there as a young hep cat (it was number 39). Mum then bought me lunch in the Four Seasons, where we chopsticked down some tucker. I had a really nice chat with Mum. I was moaning about being a bit in limbo at the moment, and she pointed out that I should enjoy it as I will soon be busy again. This was sage advice.
I decided to go home early in the afternoon rather than track anyone down for a networking booze, as my prime candidate was unavailable.
Home, and Lorraine had a much better day at work today. I rustled up some food and we watched Masterchef. Tom staying tonight, and we all chatted for a bit. Time for a early night.
Below a Pre-Raphaelite strip cartoon, the lone voice of reason on Whitehall, approaching the Houses of Parliament, and the mad woman scaring poor tourists into buying her heather.
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