Something Old, Something New!

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

London 

Something Old, Something New!    

One thing’s for sure: Five years after I lived in London, I have returned to discover that I do not have the same energy levels I used to or the ability to go on sans sleep the way I once did. I awoke at 5 .15 am and spent the first two hours of the day working on editing my essay. By 7. 30 am, I got out of bed, washed, dressed and left for 8.00 am Mass at St. Paul’s where I met my friends Cynthia and Michael briefly. Although Cynthia insisted I return to their place for breakfast, I declined as my muesli was soaking in milk and yogurt and I was keen to return home to consume it—indeed I have grown to enjoy this breakfast so much that I actually look forward to it. Simple pleasures! I ate it while watching BBC’s Breakfast Show and a bit of Lorraine and then I was getting ready to leave the house—which I did at 10. 30 am—for my long bus ride to the Horniman Museum

Finally Hitting the Horniman Museum:

There is a reason I had never been to the Horniman Museum—and I discovered that reason today! It is located in the midst of nowhere, somewhere between London and Lewisham! This meant a long ride on the Number 63 bus from Gray’s Inn heading towards Honor Oak. Thanks to Journey Planner, I figured that I needed to get off at Peckham Rye station to change to the 197 bus to Lewisham. By the time I reached, it was almost 12 noon and the place was packed solid with school kids on field trips from various schools as far away as Surrey! I was under the mistaken impression that this museum had a whole section on Tea and its accoutrements—and having become a huge tea afficionado, I figured it would be up my alley. Well, I was sadly mistaken. The Tea connection is limited to the fact that Mr. Horniman was a Victorian tea merchant who marketed a product known as Horniman Tea (still sold in the gift shop). The tea museum used to be the Bramah Tea and Coffee Museum in Southwark (which closed a few months before I got there, a year ago, to check it out). So, no, there was no tea stuff to be found at the Horniman. It is, in fact, a Natural History Museum--and not a very impressive one at that. The London Natural History Museum at Kensington is miles better. Its layout might be the Horniman’s most interesting feature—there is a vast gallery that runs the length of the museum which provides a sort of bird’s-eye view of the glass cases below. I mean its centerpiece is a stuffed giraffe--as in stuffed toy, not taxidermied! No further comment necessary. There is also an aquarium and an Amazon section (but these require a payment of 3 pounds—the rest of the museum is free). I browsed about a bit but was not very taken by anything.

            What really struck my fancy were the gardens—apparently recently refurbished in 2012 and a grand sight they are too. There is a splendid conservatory (glass house, reminiscent of the one at Syon House on the Thames) and a nice bandstand with lovely faraway views of London—you can easily distinguish the Gherkin and the Shard, the newest addition to London’s skyline. There is also a nice Musical Garden with giant installations of musical instruments such as xylophones which kids and adults can try their hands at playing. Beautiful beds of marigold in vivid shades of orange brightened up a central reflecting pool. There are perennial flower beds and a medicinal/herb garden. There is a berry patch—I feasted on delicious strawberries picked straight from the vines—what a treat!—small, sweet, red, juicy, flavorful. I don’t believe I could ever eat a genetically-engineered giant American strawberry again. When I had taken a few pictures, I left, and hopped on the bus again; but I did not return home as intended. Instead, as often happens spontaneously when I am in London, I made a detour because I realized that I was not far from the Dulwich Picture Gallery—and so that was my next port of call!

Dallying in Dulwich Picture Gallery:

            Dulwich Picture Gallery is one of London’s art gems: unfortunately, not too many people make the long hike into Dulwich, one of the pretty ‘villages’ of London to go out and see it. Because I have visited it on previous occasions and because the building is the handiwork of Sir John Soane, one of my great Victorian heroes, and because its small collection is so striking and significant, I decided to visit it again. And what a great decision that turned out to be!

            Dulwich Picture Gallery (don’t you even just love the name?) was founded in the strangest of circumstances. Here is an explanation on how the collection came to be: “Stanislaus Augustus, the last King of Poland, commissioned Noël Desenfans and Sir Francis Bourgeois RA, two successful London art dealers, to build a Royal Collection for Poland. In 1795, before they could complete the deal, Poland was partitioned by its powerful neighbour, Catherine the Great of Russia, his ex-lover. The King was forced into exile, and the dealers were left with a Royal Collection on their hands. Unable to sell it, they left the collection to Dulwich College in 1811 under the terms of Bourgeois’ will, stating that it should be available for the ‘inspection of the public’. Bourgeois left another condition in his will: that the architect for the new gallery should be his friend, Sir John Soane (1754-1837). The brief was not just to build a gallery for the pictures, but also almshouses for six old ladies (now exhibition rooms) and a mausoleum for its founders. The challenge was irresistible. Soane turned up at Dulwich the very day after Bourgeois' death. The building has influenced the design of art galleries ever since”.

      A walk through the galleries brings one to the mausoleum where the remains of the  museum’s founders are enshrined in stone tombs—a most unusual addition in an art gallery. But once you get past this oddity, you will be dumb-struck by the canvases, each one of which is more mesmerizing than the next. Old Masters will be coming out of your ears—as you feast your eyes on Rembrandt’s Girl at the Window (so realistic you will want to reach out and touch her); Murillo’s Madonna of the Rosary and a wealth of other large portraiture, several Gainsborough portraits (including one of Mrs. Elizabeth Moody and her sons Thomas and Samuel both of whom are in dresses). I was told that pre-potty trained kids in the 18^th century often wore dresses as it made it easier to take care of their toilet needs! There are amazing Guido Renis and Claude Lorraines, several Poussins, loads of Annibal Carraci and Canaletto’s famed views of the canals of Venice. This collection would make an excellent miniature introduction to the history of western art as it can easily be seen in a single morning—and, I repeat, what a breathtaking collection it is! 

     At any given time, a stroll through the permanent collection is rewarding but what makes a visit to Dulwich Picture Gallery really worthwhile are the special exhibitions that are held regularly and I was particularly fortunate to catch one today on the Bloomsbury artists who had belonged to the Slade School of Art—among whom were names that went on to fashion British Art in the early 20^th century and greatly influence it: names like Dora Carrington, CRW Nevinson, Stanley Spencer, Mark Gertler and David Bomberg. Their work was wonderful and showed the impact of the Great War and the tragedy of the Somme on their vision, the manner in which they became influenced eventually by Abstract Art especially Cubism and the ways in which their friendship led to intense personal relationships. I was enthralled as were so many of the viewers who could not tear themselves away from the display. 

     It was another sizzling afternoon; so I was grateful to sit in the shade of the café umbrellas to eat my ham and Stilton cheese sandwich as the mercury climbed ever higher. Then just before I left, I spotted the Alleyn Chapel that was open and I could not resist a quick visit inside. It is a gem of a place—a bequest to the Gallery by Edward Alleyn (pronounced “al-ayn”) who was a gigantic Shakespearean actor in his time (16^th century) and who left a chapel and enough money to cover the care of 12 widows whose homes are converted to galleries today. He lies buried in the chapel—a tombstone indicates the spot in front of the altar whose altarpiece is the work of a 19^th century sculptor named Carew. The chapel is particularly known for the fine craftsmanship of the wooden pew carvings that feature animals, birds and people in gestures of prayer. It was worth going inside to peruse the kind of artistry that one rarely sees in contemporary places of worship.

            I hopped on the bus to get back home but by the late afternoon the heat sapped my strength and made me long for a break. I needed to get away from the humidity which was stifling. Buses and Tube trains do not have air conditioning here in London and they can get unbearable when the temperatures get this high. It was gratefully that I returned to my air conditioned Holborn apartment and sank into bed expecting to take my habitual 20 minute cat nap—and amazed to find that I did not wake up for 45 minutes! As I said, I do not have the same energy of five years previously! At 5. 15 pm, I jumped up to have a cup of tea and some cake and to take a shower and get ready for my next appointment.

Off to Alexander’s Art Opening:

     By 5. 30 pm, I was out of the house and on the Tube again, heading to Westbourne Park Tube station to meet my friend Rosemary (Roz) whose son Alexander (Alex) had the opening of his first major solo art show at a gallery known as The Tabernacle. Roz was at the station waiting for me when I got there, ten minutes behind schedule as the Tube ride took longer than I expected. Ten minutes later, we were at the venue and I was shaking the hands of the handsome young artist, Roz’s son, whom I have known for several years. He has recently completed his Ph.D. after having done his B.A. and M.A. from Cambridge University with a double major in Law and Art History! All those brains and great looks too! Alex received the good wishes of a large bunch of his friends who turned out to support his work and a bevy of relatives—aunts, uncles—and family friends. Roz introduced me to a number of folks—some of whom were American. I enjoyed perusing Alex’s work in mixed media: oils, water colors, engravings. His work shows confidence and an originality of vision that I found very refreshing and very impressive. I know that he will get better and better with time and experience and I have little doubt that these works which are still very affordable will one day be worth much more than their current value.

        I said goodbye to Roz and her family members and jumped on a bus to Queensway from where I took the Tube home to Chancery Lane, happy at the thought of a fairly early night. I cobbled together a halfway decent dinner (quiche, soup, salad, cherries) and ate it while watching a new TV series called Family Tree with the comedian Chris O’Dowd whom I rather like. At 10. 30 pm with my eyes fairly closing, I hammered out this blog and fell asleep.

     It was an arty-farty day. It involved something old (Dulwich Picture Gallery) and something new (Horniman Museum). But mainly it was enervating as the heat in public transport is no laughing matter! Tomorrow, if it gets this torrid, I shall spent it in an air-conditioned space. 

       Until tomorrow, cheerio!               

Rambling Along Birdcage Walk and Vintage Pinter

Monday, July 15, 2013

London

It seems I simply have to catch up with sleep—after two inexplicable wake-ups (one at 3. 00 am), I slept till 7. 30 am which is a virtual London lie-in record for me. This meant that I missed the 8.00 am Mass but sleep did me a world of good and my periodic drowsiness was history.

I worked steadily for two hours reviewing comments from my editors and re-drafting my proposal when I stopped for breakfast (muesli with Greek style honey yoghurt), then decided to take a chance and get the “10 at 10” tickets that the sales assistant at Trafalgar Studios told me was easily available. I hopped into the Tube, got off at Charing Cross and was lucky to get the last remaining 10 pound ticket for The Hot House—Harold Pinter’s tragi-comedy set in a mental institution in the 1950s. For me, the star attraction was Simon Russel Beale whom Stephen Fry calls one of the most brilliant British actors of our time. How thrilled I was to make my dream come true. Since this is theater in the round, my stage-side seats would be terrific, I knew, and in the States, I could never dream of seeing Broadway drama for $15! Forget it!

It was time to take advantage of another glorious day in T’Smoke. Although it is hot, there is zero humidity in the air so I am rarely uncomfortable. Armed with a bottle of water, sunglasses and a baseball cap, I feel ready to conquer the streets. My aim was to finish the sights around Westminster and Whitehall recommended by DK Eye Witness Guides, but I was also keeping my eye on the recommendations of City Secrets London.

Sculpture of Charles I at Trafalgar:

Being that I was at Trafalgar Square, it made sense to scrutinize the statue of King Charles I who is routinely overshadowed by the towering presence of Nelson on his pedestal just behind. Yet, Charlie is the oldest fixture in that space, having been installed on his mount—the work of Hubert Le Seuer—in 1633. The sculpture predates Trafalgar Square itself by 150 years although it was not installed at this location until 1675 “having been sold under Cromwell to a brazier who, with a shrew eye to later financial advantage, buried it until the Restoration although he was instructed to destroy it”. He gazes down Whitehall which would have been the route he took to his execution in 1649 at the Banqueting Hall which he constructed in honor or his father, James I. Once a year, on January 30 at 11.00 am, a wreath-laying ceremony occurs to commemorate his ill-fated end. 

     

A Peep into London’s Oldest Wine Bar:

            It was time to make a detour into Villiers Street sandwiched between The Strand and the Embankment. Touted by many as the most Dickensian watering hole in the city, it simply demands a look-see—Gordon’s Wine Bar. And what a fantastic place it turned out to be! At any minute you expect Fagin to emerge from its shadows in the basement with its low-hung arches resembling a medieval cathedral crypt. Dark, smoke-streaked walls—the result of a forest of candles stuck into wine bottles—crammed with 1950’s memorabilia (suddenly made so much more significant after the Diamond Jubilee), also moth-stained and sepia-ed with time, add to the overall atmosphere of this place. No room here for light, for space, for improvement—as the present “gastro pubs” boast. This is Victorian olde-world at its most authentic. For those wishing to breathe in unpolluted, non-alcoholic air, there is a café that borders the Embankment Gardens at the back. Don’t be fooled by the nondescript exterior—although it too is profoundly aged—but take the challenge and descend the narrow, dark and dinghy stairs and enter into an era that fairly bristles with history. Be assured that Kipling who lived in the same building (today known as Kipling House) would have been a regular as well as Kenneth Clarke who came with his entire crew after filming portions of Civilization at the National and stood quietly, drink in hand, in the corner, drowning the day’s stresses away. Gordon’s serves your traditional pub grub (read Roast Beef with all the trimmings) but most patrons come in to drink in—both the spirits and the spirit of centuries past.

Saying Hello to Embankment Heroes:

            A long-ish walk down the Embankment (opposite the Thames side) brought me within hand-shaking distance of a number of British war heroes, statesmen and colonialists—all remembered in cast metal on lofty pedestals and surrounded by the seasonal splendor of flowers: sunflowers, begonias, day lilies. I recognized Bartle Frere after whom Frere Road in Bombay is named. There is William Tynedale who translated the Greek Bible into English and was executed for his pains. There is a monument to the Chindis, a World War II regiment based largely in Burma, with an appropriate lion symbolizing the ferocity of the regiment. It is a pity that most people choose to walk along the river and these wonderful symbols of British history are largely ignored.

Leaving the tourist chaos of Parliament Square behind me, I turned onto Birdcage Walk—lovely name and I pause to wonder about its origins as most “funny” names in the UK carry an appropriately funny story. It borders St. James’ Park—its leafiest, shadiest portion, thanks to the massive plane trees that make it a bosky place.   

Rambling Down Birdcage Walk:

            First stop, Queen Anne’s Gate. I can hear the booming of the last of the Changing of the Guard on Pall Mall as I enter this wonderfully 18^th century enclave, complete with its granite statue of Queen Anne whose haughty gaze sweeps the residences. They have elaborate canopied entrances, some in stucco, others wooden. Historical worthies lived here—from Prime Minister Palmerston to philosopher like Haldane.

            From here, it is a short hop to St. James’ Park Tube Station which is built into the building known as 55 Broadway—it reminds me of Bush House at Aldwych in its grey solidity. The building is remarkable for its Jacob Epstein sculptures that punctuate it at regular intervals. All you have to do is raise your head upwards to take in the marvels of one of the 20^th century’s most famed sculptors. Inside the station, Art Deco elements are evident in the light fixtures. One of these days, I shall find the time to take in the art and sculpture of the Tube stations—it will be like a Progressive Museum Tour, no doubt.

            Circling the building, I arrive at Caxton Street, home to the Blewcoat School that was founded in 1707 as a charity school to teach pupils how to :read, write, cast accounts and the catechism”. It remained a school until 1939—indicated by the blue-coated pupil sculpted high on its entrance just below the ubiquitous clock—became an army store during World War II (every place in the country was requisitioned during the war), was bought by the National Trust in 1954 and used as their gift shop until recently. Alas, today it stands wan and forlorn, disused and empty. No doubt some savvy entrepreneur will soon come calling to initiate yet another Java Stop in these hallowed, red brick premises.

            The Guards Museum, back on Birdcage Walk, was next on my agenda: although I did not have the time to enter the Museum, I did pay my respects at the attached chapel with its moth-eaten standards flying from flag-poles along the sides and its stunning gold mosaic altar in Byzantine style. The Horse Guards are so revered that they have their own house of worship where Sunday choral services take place routinely and a gift shop that sells toy soldiers in virtually every avatar.

            By this time, I had reached St. James’ Court and spying a different sort of standard flying from it—that of the Taj Group of Hotels—I could not resist exploring it. I have a long family association with the Taj as my brother once worked for the group and a special affection for it as someone who has often used its excellent hotels. I have also learned from long and frequent travels that five-star hotels make great comfort stops as their lobby restrooms can often be used by the public. I needed a sit-down rather badly and air-conditioning in the lobby made it particularly welcome on another toasty day. The bonus was wifi which I used to check email and re-check the number of my doctor at the Holborn Medical Center. Attempts to call and make an appointment based on the number I had stored, drew a blank. Armed with the new number, I tried to make an appointment with little success for my sulphur allergy which has flared up again in an itchy, uncomfortable rash. Though I faced initial frustration, I have to say that the Triage Doctor called me back within the hour and gave me an appointment for that very afternoon at 2. 20 pm. It would mean making changes in my plans, but I conceded. Who knows when they would be able to fit me in next if I dithered?

            I found the time to sit under the shade of the above-mentioned plane trees and munch my ox tongue sandwiches in the company of other office-goers who were drawn irresistibly to sunshine and shade provided by the Park where Henry VIII had once hunted lustily. My sandwiches were made more delicious by my picnic environment, but much as I would have liked to linger, I had a doctor’s appointment to keep.

            So off I went on the Tube from St. James’ Park station to Lamb’s Conduit Street at Holborn, sorry to discover that my regular doctor is no more with the practice but equally delighted to discover that his place had been taken by an American doctor—one John Roegner, originally from Michigan, who knew the names of all my American medication and could work with me to combat the allergy. After a very companionable chat and an examination, I left with a prescription for a local cream to be applied twice a day and instructions to return to see him again, should it not work. My faith in the NHS was reinstated and I was grateful for the speedy service. The pharmacy next-door provided the medication which I purchased quite reasonably and returned to my plans for the day.

Meeting A Friend at the Tate Britain:

            This involved returning home to pick up my field glasses for the play in the evening before nipping into the Tube again. This time my destination was the Tate Britain to see the Turners in the Clore Collection with my friend Murali Menon, a fellow art-lover and blogger. A short walk from Pimlico brought me to the Millbank Embankment where Murali was awaiting my arrival at the main entrance. We sat down to cups of tea in the noisy Manton Café first for a lively chinwag when I discovered that Murali, an IT guy, might help me fix the glitch on my blog that was making the inputting of text impossible. He offered to come over to the Holborn flat to take a look and thrilled with his suggestion, I jumped up, rushed off to look at the Turners—only to discover that they demanded more than just a cursory glance. I would need to return for a more leisurely look.

            But first things first: within twenty minutes, Murali and I were heading back on the Tube, speeding to Holborn, where within minutes, he figured out that simply changing my browser might enable me to solve the problem. And indeed it did! From Internet Explorer to Mozilla Firefox I went and hey presto! My blog is now alive and running—as you can see. Murali’s efforts were rewarded by a chilled lemonade and a slice of lemon sponge roll cake. We had to alter our plans to meet at the Tate again—but it was so worthwhile. Ten minutes later, Murali left and I was able to take a shower and get dressed for my evening out at the theater.

The Hot House at Trafalgar Studios:

            I have seen a lot of drama over the years at the Trafalgar Studios—a small, intimate, amphitheater-like space that I dearly love. Arriving on the Tube at 7. 25 pm, I took my place behind the stage and was so close to the actors that my field glasses were completely unnecessary. I could not have snagged better seats if I had paid a small fortune for them! And what a show it was! This is vintage Harold Pinter—in a play he had abandoned for a long while before returning to direct it himself in the 1980s and to play the lead role of Colonel Root (superbly performed by Simon Russel Beale). This is dark comedy at its most explosive for the setting is the controversial mental health institutes that were run by totalitarian regimes specifically to use electric shock therapy to silence dissidents. It was shocking, it was brutal, it was fearsome and it was hilarious—all at the same time. Brilliant (and I do not use this word just because I am in the UK) performances, superb playwriting, excellent direction combined to make this scintillating at every turn. I loved every second—and the bonus was the chance to see British stars of film and TV in the flesh. I had gone to see Beale but on stage, I found Indira Varma (with whom I have recently become familiar in her role as Luther’s wife in the Idris Alba crime drama), a much slimmed down Harry Melling (who plays Harry Potter’s fat cousin Dudley in all the films of the series) and Christopher Timothy (James Herriot in All Creatures Great and Small) whom I have loved for years. What a treat it was and how determined I am now to get as many 10 pound tickets as I possibly cam for all the stage dramas I wish to see. Thank you Jamie Lloyd for directing such a satisfying production.

            Twilight had fallen over Trafalgar Square when I emerged from the theater and I had half a mind to jump on a bus and get out there to see the monuments illuminated---but it had been a long day and I needed to review a chapter that has a strict deadline. So I resisted temptation and went back home for dinner (quiche, salad, cherries) and in very little time, I was off to bed.

            Until tomorrow, cheerio!                    

A Most Ecclesiastical Sort of Day!

Sunday, July 14, 2013

London:

A Most Ecclesiastical Day!

    Sine today was a Sunday, I suppose it is not surprisingly that my day turned out to be mostly ecclesiastical. I awoke at 4. 10 am, forced myself to go back to sleep; woke again at 5. 15 am and once again psyched myself back to sleep. Eventually it was 6. 45 am when I got out a bed—a virtual Sunday lie-in for Early Bird Me. In bed, I finished blogging, caught up with email and sorted out my day—which was largely unplanned. Sometimes, a bit of spontaneity is called for: and today proved to be one of those unstructured days that bring unexpected delights.

Mass at my Former ‘Parish’ Church:

            It felt like old times when I left my Holborn apartment at 8. 45 am to attend Sunday Mass at St. Etheldreda’s Church that is tucked away in a hidden corner of Holborn Circus called Ely Place. Those of you who read my blog regularly might remember this historic church that is considered Britain’s oldest Catholic Church as it was the first one to re-convert to Catholicism after the Reformation. Miraculously, it also survived the Blitz. On the stained glass windows  on the side walls, there are names of church worthies dating from the 1100s. I took my seat in its beautiful hushed interior, relieved to see that the small landing leading to the church doors is now brightly lit with a brand-new light fixture. In the days when I worshipped there, it was dark and unwelcoming.

            Some things change with the passage of time; and some things remain the same. I was amazed to see so many Sunday ‘regulars’ still there: the lady with the braid who serves as Lector, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday—with no one else serving in this important ministry—I wonder why. There is the overweight lady who needs help moving to the Communion rails—still there in the pew she occupied four years ago. The celebrant was the same too: Fr. Tom Deidun, the Welsh priest, who had welcomed me to the church five years ago. But other priests have left: the Indian priest from Kerala, Fr. Sebu, is no longer there; and neither is the Frenchman, Fr. Dennis. As usual, the church was full of tourists—they probably read about the church on the internet. A large group from America was present this morning—they are en route to Paris. I have always loved the Tudor/Victorian interior of this church and every time I am in London, I try to worship here at least once—not only does it evoke in me the state of mind in which I was when I lived in London but its ambience is profoundly conducive to prayer and reflection.

                   

Home for Brekkie and Another Mass:

            I got home to my muesli brekkie and made myself a cup of coffee that I sipped slowly as I watched Saturday Kitchen highlights. Then, at 10. 45 am, I left the flat, jumped into a bus and was at St. Paul’s Cathedral in exactly 10 minutes—just in time to join my friend Cynthia who had reserved a seat for me (“in Row Two”) for the amazing Mass in Angustiis (Nelson Mass) composed by Haydn that is performed once a year at 11.00 am. Here is a word about the Mass from the brochure that was handed out:

            “Although Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) would have known very few details of Lord Nelson’s campaign against Napoleon as he was composing the Missa in Angustiis (Mass in Time of Fear), in 1798, the war was very much in the minds of the courtiers at Esterhazy (where the composer was employed) and, following news of the victory at Abukir, the Mass (first performed on 15^th September) became known as the Nelson Mass. In 1795, Haydn returned from a trip to London (where he composed his 104^th and final symphony, and where he was reportedly moved to tears by the voices of 6,000 children in the Charity Schools Anniversary Service held in St. Paul’s) to find himself commissioned to write a new mass each year in the name of the Princess Esterhazy. The Nelson Mass is the third of the six masses that Haydn completed in response to this request from Prince Esterhazy.  It was scored for three trumpets, timpani, strings and solo organ (which Haydn himself would have played), soloists and choir.  With its unusually violent outbursts of fortissimo sound, it is a magnificent and stately work, which seems to befit both its original purpose and its adopted sobriquet.”

            I was pleasantly surprised to find Mark Hansen from New York who works for St. Paul’s in New York seated next to me. Over the years, he has become a friend and it is always a pleasure to see him. I was also introduced to a female priest from Copenhagen named Ulla. To my immense surprise, my friend Cynthia was wearing the exact same necklace that Llew had bought for me on our cruise—indeed Michael had bought the necklace for Cynthia on a similar Baltic Sea cruise—I just could not get over the sheer coincidence of it. Great minds think alike?

            Once the Mass started, I was simply enthralled from Note One. There is nothing quite awe-inspiring, I think, that a sung mass in the splendid confines of a Baroque Christopher Wren Cathedral under a ceiling painted by James Thornhill which creates brilliant acoustics. Every note resounds in the space—so much so that the soprano soloist who stole the show and had a voice of such clarity it evoked a crystal bell. The little boy choristers did as grand a job as they always do. The sermon preached by Rev. Mark Oakley was stirring (no one can preach like the Anglicans—well, maybe the Catholic Redemptorists!) Despite the fact that the Mass took over an hour and a half to end, not a single second dragged. I was so glad I attended because it is only rarely that I have the opportunity to experience so fine an audio treat.

            Cynthia insisted I return to Amen Court for lunch—which I did. It was simple but good: just fish cakes, a salad that I helped prepare with arugula, strawberries, melon, tomatoes, cucumber, dried cranberries and pistachios with a balsamic vinaigrette and a fruit salad for dessert.

Off to Celebrate Bastille Day at Borough Market:

            After lunch, Cynthia decided to join me at Borough Market on the South Bank of the Thames to celebrate Bastille Day—Le Quartorze Juillet—a national holiday in France that recalls the overthrow of the monarchy and the establishment of the French Republic. Borough Market was converted into a French village market with every conceivable purveyor of fine French food showing off his wares. As Cynthia and I made the rounds of the stalls, we were treated to a variety of cheese, brownies, spreads, even Turkish delight. At a cookery demonstration where Blanquette de Veau was prepared and offered for sampling, I was appalled to discover that the lady had completely forgotten to season the stew—it was completely saltless! I had to actually spit it out!

            The most gruesome part of the afternoon was one of the ‘games’ set up in Jubilee Park which included a Mock Guillotine. A guy with white painted face and wearing the costume of a monk invited people (for small payment) to place their heads on the stand. He shouted’ Three Two One”—which made it think “Trois, Deux, Un” would have been more appropriate—and then pulled the rope to bring down the steel blade of the guillotine to chop their heads off. Needless to say, it fell into a slot leaving the head intact—although the sporting participants playacted rather well by getting their tongues to loll out on cue! Not surprising that I heard little ones crying with terror on viewing the sport!    

Cynthia bought some Comte cheese and some sausages and then we were making our way towards the Globe Theater to cross Wobbly Bridge once again and return to Amen Court for a nice cuppa and a slice of Victoria Sandwich (sponge cake filled with strawberry jam and cream).

At 4. 45 pm, I said goodbye to Cynthia and returned alone to the Cathedral for a free organ recital by Edward Picton-Turberville of St. John’s College, Cambridge. It was wonderful again, as expected. I stayed for the entire first work: Prelude and Fugue in C Minor by J.S. Bach; but soon I felt as if I had subjected myself to an overdose of church music and I left on my next mission.

Off to St. John’s Wood on a Mission of Mercy:

            Cynthia lent me a small suitcase with which I can move around London more conveniently in the next month. I picked it up from her place, then caught the bus home to drop it off. I was back on the Tube again in a few minutes only to get off at Oxford Circus which was winding up for the day—it was 5. 45 pm when I entered Marks and Spencer to buy some Coffee Walnut Cake and Lemon Sponge Roll for my tea. And then I was on the 139 bus from Marble Arch, heading to St. Johns’ Wood, to water balcony plants for my friend Raquel and Chris who have left for the States. I was there, 20 minutes later and the plants were duly watered. It was a mission of mercy for the day had been very toasty indeed— mercury climbing all the way to 88 degrees which is sizzling for Londoners—although without any humidity in the air, I was rarely uncomfortable.  The tourists were still there at the Beatles’ crossing—I think I shall have some entertaining moments when I move into the flat next week just watching their antics as they try to get the Fab Four’s pose exactly right! Then I was on the bus back to Marble Arch from where I took the Tube back home at 7. 30 pm.

            Catching up on email and this blog took me all of the next hour when I paused for dinner: Quiche, Salad, Cake while watching something on TV called “Mock the Week”. At 11. 00 pm, it was Lights Out for me after what had been a long and unexpectedly fun Bastille Day spent largely in the company of my friend Cynthia.

             Thanks for reading my blog. Now how about penning some comments?

              Until tomorrow, Cheerio!

            

      

A Spontaneous Saturday--Bastille Day, National Gallery, Hog Roast

Saturday, July 13, 2013:

London

           

Saturday Sans Plan:

            Things seemed to go particularly badly for me today. Pre-dawn wake-ups (today at 4. 50 am after which I forced myself to go back to sleep and then wake at 6. 10 am) means that I feel extremely drowsy mid-afternoon and can barely stand, forget about trying to force my eyes open.

I did a bit of work on my PC, then washed, dressed, had a muesli breakfast while watching BBC’s Breakfast show and began to look forward to Saturday Kitchen with James Martin which begins at 10 am. Meanwhile, when I pulled the battery out of my camera to charge it, I discovered that it would not fit into my US adaptor. Fortunately, Currys, the digital people, have a store at Holborn Circus—a trip downstairs would be in order. But wouldn’t you just know it? Since lawyer-centric Holborn comes to a virtual commercial standstill at the weekends, Currys was closed—even on a Saturday. I crossed the street to Blacks who stock travel supplies—they had no adaptor, but the sales assistant suggested I “try Argos, Miss” (It has been a long time since I have been addressed as “Miss”, so I felt flattered). So Argos came to the rescue and with the nice Indian assistant helping me out there, I was well equipped to re-charge my camera battery and add to my photo collection.

            Back home, I watched Saturday Kitchen with astonishment at the amount of weight James Martin has put on in four years—he used to be cute and sexy and slim when I used to watch his show while I lived in London. Accompanying him was Rick Stein showing viewers how to make a Bhaji, if you please—an Indian breakfast dish he claims he learned in India. He served it with chappatis topped with a fried egg for breakfast! Other than the chappatis, I could find nothing Indian in that Indian breakfast. Needless to say, I was disappointed—more so because the promised Coffee-Walnut Cake (my favorite) was never demonstrated step-by step although the completed cake was tantalizingly shown several times. 

            At 11. 30 am, I decided to investigate, by means of Journey Planner, how I could get to the Horniman Museum by bus. Once I had figured it out, I realized it would take one and a half hour each way. It was already too late in the day to set out and decided to postpone the trip to Monday. First things First, I thought: Let’s get some work done at my office at NYU. So I stepped out into the sun and the startling heat (thankfully it was not humid) when I discovered that I had misplaced my clip-on sunglasses at the Royal Academy of Arts yesterday for that was where I distinctly remember last having them on. I went back upstairs, did a thorough search of my bag and my trousers’ pockets and drew a blank. I could call the RA and find out if someone had turned them in to the Lost and Found (they hadn’t) or I could simply go to a pharmacy and find another pair. I was deeply despondent by this time for nothing seemed to be going right.

            The bus to Bloomsbury trundled up soon enough. I walked briskly to Bedford Square but Vincent, the Weekend Porter on duty, did not know me and needed to confirm my credentials before permitting me to use office facilities. A quick call to one of my former London colleagues and that hiccup was sorted. I descended into the basement computer lab and spent the next one hour working: printing and editing some text and trying to print out a chapter that has been reviewed by the editors and that needs to be reworked by the end of this month for it has a strict publication deadline. The printer worked well initially then something happened, and as so often occurs with these machines that have minds all of their own, it simply stopped functioning. Still, I had managed to get a sheaf of material printed out—which means I will be intensely busy in the next few days getting some solid work accomplished.

            By 1.30, I had completed my work and stepped into the Spec Savers on Tottenham Court Road to buy myself a replacement clip on-pair of sunglasses. I was informed by the sales assistant that such things are not manufactured in the UK and can only be custom-made by a private optometrist/optician (for a bomb, no doubt). Disappointed, I stepped into Boots pharmacy next door—and hey presto, there they were and on sale too for ten pounds!  I snatched a pair eagerly and stepped out on to the street vastly relieved at being shaded from the mounting glare.

Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square:      

Then, I was on the Tube to Charing Cross intending to poke around the Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square which was crawling with students. Unfortunately, the demographic focus was adult literacy and although the place was stuffed with school kids and some events were scheduled on the stage, there was nothing to hold my interest.

An Afternoon at the National Gallery:

After picking up a few book marks, I stepped into the café at the National Gallery which seemed like the most sensible place to be on an afternoon in which the mercury climbed to a steady 90 plus degrees! There I ate my ox tongue sandwich and took a bit of foot rest before joining folks for the start of the 2.30 pm guided tour given by someone named Carly. The National Gallery is one of my favorite places in the whole wide world and something of a second home to me as I know my way around it almost as well as I do the Metropolitan Museum in New York. This is what Carly showed in her hour-long tour:

1. The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian by the brothers Antonio del Pollaiuolo and Piero del Pollaiuolo

2. Diana in her Lair by Titian

3. The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein

4. Queen Charlotte by Thomas Lawrence

5. The Bathers at Asniers by Georges Seurat.

It was a good tour—but the galleries were noisy and crowded. Everyone wanted to beat the heat by finding refuge in its air-conditioned interiors. It finished at 3. 30 pm and since the next tour was at 4.00, I had half an hour in which to investigate the special exhibition entitled “Saints Alive” by Michael Landy. It was a truly bizarre show in which iconic Old Master works on the portrayal of saints from the National Gallery’s permanent collection are taken by the artist and given a new twist. Landy chose portraits of martyred saints and using the concept of the mechanical wheel as in kinetic art of the 1970s, mangled the originals so completely as to create moving sculpture and mechanical installations.  For example, he took Lucas Cranach’s Saints Genevieve and Appollina and created a sculpture in which the figure pulls out her teeth as the tortured saint had hers forcibly removed. Similarly, St. Jerome, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, St. Francis of Assissi and others were subjected to the same weird treatment. Thanks to the film that accompanies the show, I was able to make a great deal of sense of the artist’s vision and objective but I must admit that I did not find it even remotely appealing.

At 4.00 pm, I joined Carly’s Highlights Tour again. This is what she showed to a much smaller group on her second round:

1. The Wilton Diptych

2. The Origin of the Milky Way by Jacomo Tintoretto

3. Mr and Mrs William Hallet by Thomas Gainsborough

4. Autumnal View of Het Steen by Peter Paul Reubens

5. Bridge over Water Lily Pond at Giverny by Claude Monet

            The tour concluded at 5. 00 pm and Carly was kind enough to introduce me to Tania at the Audio Guide Desk who said that since I was a docent at the Met, she would gladly permit me to use the audio guide, free of charge, if I showed up while she was on duty. I was thrilled as I hurried to the bus stop to get back to Holborn, shower, dress and leave for the Hog Roast to which I was invited at St. Paul’s

Hog Roast at St. Paul’s Cathedral:

            Every year, Year Eight students of St. Paul’s School (attached to St. Paul’s Cathedral), have a Send-Off Barbecue at attached Amen Court (designed by the great Sir Christopher Wren in 1672). These young lads are choristers—they form the boys’ choir that sings at all the great events that the Cathedral organizes. Over the years, I have had my favorites—but by the next year when I return, they have disappeared. Their voices crack and they must leave for more grown-up pastures. This year, since I was in town, I was invited by my friends Bishop Michael and his wife Cynthia to attend. I arrived at their place at 6. 15 pm and found the Court already alive with happy families—parents, siblings and the proud young graduates themselves were present around the marquees set up on the lawn. There was even a dog called Jacob, clearly in Doggy Heaven from all the scraps the kids were feeding him.  

It was great to see my friends Michael and Cynthia and their son Aidan again and to gab non-stop as we always do. Since I stayed at their place less than three months ago, I felt as if I had never left. When we stepped outside, into a still warm evening, Cynthia introduced me to a number of interesting parents including Saro from Kerala whose Year Eight chorister son Kevin had done the Reading in church on Friday and, as I could see then, had been bristling with nerves. Eventually, we got down to some sipping (orange juice for me—no lager in sight) and eating: pulled pork (it was, after all, a Hog Roast), red cabbage coleslaw, a green salad, quiche. I avoided the bun (am trying to eliminate carbs in an attempt to lose ‘cruise weight’) and then returned to Cynthia’s table with our plates—so much easier to eat roasted meat with a real fork and knife.

Back outside, we circulated some more. I met the Music Director Andrew Carwood and the Deputy Head of the School, Clive Marriot—before the speeches began. And what lovely speeches they were too--funny and moving at the same time! They boys were given a really warm send-off with so many sincere Thank-yous mentioned all around. Their mentors were thanked and their parents and their siblings—and all those responsible for having provided them with the unique opportunity of serving as choir boys in one of the world’s greatest houses of worship. Most go off now to prestigious boarding schools around the country already having achieved more than most boys their age have done. I had a lump in my throat at the farewell speeches, I have to say, although I did not know any of them personally. It is always touching to perceive the innocent promise of youth untouched by the trials that the world presents. That’s why I have always loved graduation ceremonies.

“Choc Ices” followed for dessert after the speechifying. I stayed long enough to meet Kitty, the Colcloughs’ present house guest whose dad John I happen to have met on an earlier visit to London. She is a vivacious New Yorker ready to start grad school in London in the fall. We chatted for a long while and then I left and came ‘home’ to High Holborn ready to drop into bed after what had started off as a lousy day but improved considerably as it progressed.