The greyest of days

The monotony relieved by

Andreas Gursky at the newly refurbished Hayward Gallery.

It has taken two years and the 66 restored pyramidal roof lights,

letting in 'God's daylight' as decreed by Henry Moore 

 make a big difference to the atmosphere on the upper floor.

I don't think they did anything to improve the loos though.

Racing along

This is the torrent of photos

 that was released when the spanner in the blogging works was unjammed.

It doesn't make a lot of sense and doesn't have a neat story

to wrap round it except that this is how spring goes racing along here.

I've been busy making cards
from my old Brooke Bond tea card collection
which wasn't sparking joy but now is,

a cushion for the summer house
from an old curtain ditto,

passion fruit possets,

many more cards,

and looking after this funny little one, 
lately back from New York
sporting the latest in headgear
aka a neck cushion.

A Tale of Two Cities

Once again the family is far flung.

London

grey and chill at 8 C.

New York basking in unseasonal warmth at 24 C.

And yes, I told them to take thermals

because when younger son was there it was -15 C.

We consoled ourselves today with cosmopolitan delights:

The Vogue 100 exhibition, a tuna burger and 

a matcha latte.

But we will be so glad when they are back.

I'm sure Spring will have arrived by then.

A yellow beret moment

No longer do I feel harried and hounded through the day

by the swift approach of winter nightfall.

Yes, it's getting dark;

but more slowly.

This is 5.18 pm and that's

a big improvement.

The crocuses are out.

And the sun shone brightly through the stained glass

at Two Temple Place.

I have a sudden hankering for a yellow beret

and a bunch of daffodils to match.

Feeling my age

Trafalgar Square has hosted A Place Called Home

during the London Design Festival.

I am discomfited by the installations.

Two flickering screens in Ilse Crawford's house,

What Does Home Mean To You? were as difficult to focus on

as those banks of television sets in a department store.

You were invited to Tweet your impressions

which were added to a further scrolling display.

140 characters didn't seem to offer enough scope for my feelings.

Also I don't have a Twitter account.

Also I had a headache brought on by Swivel Eye Syndrome.

It smelt nice though. She had commissioned Azzi Glasser to develop

a scent to waft around the space because,

'every home has its own distinctive smell.' 

My home smells of Sunday lunch at present

and faintly of drying oil paint.

A pigeon themed house from Jasper Morrison.

Witty at least.

Sadly the actual pigeons have been banishéd from Trafalgar Square.

I say sadly, but actually I was terrified as a child

when they landed on my head.

This was a popular photo opportunity

for those with a Box Brownie.

I'd intended to walk to The Design Museum near Tower Bridge.

The River Bus was an entertaining and more direct alternative.

It was also a chance for a sit down.

My Freedom Pass was accepted,

but she wanted to see it first.

Which was nice.

A sobering sight. So many poppies.

So many deaths.

The Design Museum had this pop-up exhibition.

I was not impressed by the £12.40 entrance fee.

'No age-related concessions,' said the girl at the desk

a tad presumptuously.

(I hadn't asked for one.)

One of the displays was a tray of Lego with some half-made models on a table.

A guard had been positioned near it to bark at people who believed

they had been invited to play with it.

Elsewhere the exhibitions were interactive 

so they were naturally confused.

I looked for an i-phone cover in the shop.

Not finding one, I interrupted a conversation behind the till

to ask if they stocked any.

It was as though I had asked for a Union Jack place mat with

'I heart London' on it.

I walked back to London Bridge feeling thoroughly deflated by it all.

Rather longing for more of this:

No entrance fee.

All ages welcome.

360 º

I won't take a camera I thought,

it'll just be in the way and

I don't want to carry a heavy bag.

So what did I decide to do on the spur of the moment

on this sunniest and clearest of Spring days?

I went up the Shard.

Probably the best blogortunity in London.

Well I looked with my eyes and not a lens

and it was just as you'd hope

a view from the 72nd level would be,

800 giddy feet in the air.

Little white trains slithered in and out of stations;

slipped past each other across bridges, 

curled away and converged with immaculate timing.

Boats large and small chugged up and down the river.

A police launch nosed importantly between the slower vessels.

Big Ben was tiny.

So was St. Paul's. 

The Thames takes a deeply sinuous route into the far distance

glinting upstream in the low sun,

broadening downstream towards Greenwich and the open sea.

But most beautiful of all was to see all around 
the rim of hills that hold London 
in their hazy and distant embrace.

The only jarring note was the quite unnecessary New Age muzak,

intended I suppose to heighten your wonderment.

At that height, with a slight breeze on my face,

blissfully removed from 

the blare of mobile phones and traffic,

it was silence I craved.

That would have made the Shard sublime.

Breaking into a light sweat

Stocking up on carbs and protein.

Celebratory glass filled.

I may not have got tickets,

and may never have excelled at lacrosse, tennis, 

netball or swimming at school

but I can roar encouragement,

and dish out expert advice for team GB on any sport now,

from the comfort of the sitting room.

Tonight Matthew I am going to be a champion heptathelete 

and runner.*


Edited to add: And so it was.

* Catchphrase from Stars in their Eyes.

Battered

I commuted for years, every day, by train, 

tube and bus, around town.

It was pretty tiresome as I recall, reaching a particular low

on the day I had to jump down onto the track at a London terminus 

when seven months pregnant, 

because of sudden horrific overcrowding 

on the station concourse and platform.

But I am quite certain it was never as bad as it is now -

routinely.

I have just endured a one hour assault on my senses.

A man bellowed directions into his phone,

'Noooh! Noooh! Shepherd's Bush.

NooH! Whaat? NoooH! Not Richmond!

You come out... meet me at the exit!

Meet me at the EXIT.

Shepherd's Bush.

NooH! Where are you?

etc. etc.

This then turned, inexplicably, to a graphic stream of invective,

at which point I moved to the next carriage.

A man with BO and a cough sat next to me.

When he left, he was replaced by a man eating

a fried chicken drumstick with his elbow in my face.

The man on my left fell asleep and lolled towards me,

I shrank towards the fried chicken.

A woman opposite glared and grimaced 

as if at some internal conflict.

The voluble Brazilian family were at least incomprehensible,

but one of them was filing her nails.

I haven't got an i-Phone to gaze at, or a working i-Pod

to cancel out the other i-Pods.

I couldn't read my book.

So I shut my eyes

and I tried to picture Romney Marsh churches.

It didn't really work.

So I'm getting it off my chest here.