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...