To London to see exhibitions by Lucien Freud and William Blake. Neither artist floats my boat, but Amanda loves them both - and she's sat through enough atonal (and sometimes arrhythmic) jazz for my sake...
An uneventful journey down on the 09.31. One of our travelling companions was lying on the table adjacent to us - but he was excused for being only 11 weeks old, as cute as a button and as good as gold for the whole journey; he was on his way to Bromley to see his Great Grandma, who would be 90 the next day. "Take lots of photos", I advised his mother as we said goodbye at St Pancras, "he'll appreciate them when he's older!"
A quick tube ride to Piccadilly Circus and a stroll along Piccadilly, followed by a short visit to Hatchards.
Over the road, and into the impressive RA courtyard:
Coats checked, we made our way to the exhibition:
A snack in the cafe. For some reason the RA were drawn to add onion to an egg & cress sandwich; this was a mistake on so many levels.
Out, and a short walk further along Piccadilly and then through Green Park and past Buck House. The Union Jack was flying, but of Brenda was there not a sign.
No matter how old I get, the little boy in me still gets a buzz from seeing these guys:
- though 60+ years ago they stood guard outside the railings:
and little boys and their sisters could be fascinated by the extent to which the paving slabs had been worn smooth by all the marching in hob-nailed boots:
Historical note: This was, I think, the very last day that the guards marched with the old Lee Enfield rifles. On our next visit they had switched to the L1 A1 SLR.
More walking and a short cab ride and we arrived at Tate Britain.
The Tate's winter commission may have looked spectacular at some point, and possibly more so in the dark, but when we arrived it had all the charm and appeal of the aftermath of a heavy snowfall on a major thoroughfare, resembling nothing more than grimy piles of soot-stained snow and other detritus being freed from a snowy prison. Others stood and looked on, bewildered; we marched boldly past and into the gallery.
Coats checked, we made our way to the exhibition:
Time to confess. I made it to the end of the second over-crowded room and decided that enough was enough, agreeing as I did with the visitor behind me who commented "this is ridiculous".
Many of the exhibits were so small that one had to get to within less than a metre away in order to be able to appreciate them; those who were doing so were travelling at a snail's pace, and anyone wanting to by-pass them at anything like a normal viewing speed couldn't get close enough to see.
I sat on a bench and told Amanda that I would willingly wait while she looked at everything she wanted to, but that I'd had enough. On reflection, this was a wise move, since she returned excitedly some time later and informed me that there were a further eight rooms...
When Amanda had had her fill we made our way out, past Michael Sandle's "Der Trommler" (The Drummer). There's something about the futuristic figure that always makes me want to shout "Klaatu barada nikto!" whenever I see it.
Out and along Millbank towards the Houses of Parliament, passing Thames House on the left.
In 1981 the Central Electricity Generating Board (CEGB) applied to the Secretary of State for Energy for permission to construct a Pressurised Water Reactor (PWR) nuclear power station near Sizewell, in Suffolk. Objections from various groups led to the Secretary of State appointing Sir Frank Layfield, QC, to conduct a public inquiry into the CEGB's application.
From 1981 to 1984 I worked under contract to the Nuclear Installations Inspectorate (NII), using computer modelling to predict the outcome of a variety of accidents in PWRs, to help to inform the NII's submissions to the enquiry. The NII was based in Thames House, and from time to time I would visit their offices there to gather information and data that I needed as input to my calculations.
Thames House is now the headquarters of MI5.
On, past Parliament, up Whitehall and into Trafalgar Square. While I agree with the notion that it's wrong (or at least churlish) to look a gift horse in the mouth, I do agree with the criticism that the 2019 Christmas tree is somewhat sparse:
Along the Strand to Burleigh St, and into our chosen venue for a (very) late lunch - Joe Allen.
Amanda, with the pianist's shock of grey hair just visible above the piano:
Two views of your correspondent:
The secret, not on the menu, burger with cheese and bacon for me, and the altogether more grown up confit duck leg, green beans, mash and red wine jus for Amanda:
Sweets. Vanilla cheesecake with blackberry compote for me and apple and mixed berry crumble with vanilla ice cream for Amanda.
Replete, we rolled out and strolled up to Covent Garden:
It must be said that the tree here was an altogether more attractive one than that in Trafalgar Square:
and not above photo-bombing unsuspecting visitors:
More trees lining the main square:
Through Covent Garden and onto Long Acre for a visit to Muji to pick up some notepads (which turned out to be out of stock).
On to Seven Dials which was, as usual, attractively decorated (apart from the dodgy character on the right):
A visit to London Graphics Centre, where temptations were resisted, and on to Charing Cross Road. We crossed Oxford Street and, while the bottom end of Tottenham Court Road is not usually the best place to find a cab, I managed to nab one as he dropped off a fare. I asked for us to be dropped at "82, Marchmont Street".
"So", enquired the cab driver, "have you spent nearly all your money?". I explained that we had spent most of the day in galleries, but were on our way to Judd Books before heading home. "What sort of books do you like reading?", he asked. "Mainly science and biographies for me", I replied, "but my wife will read practically anything".
"I've got a book up here that was given to me for Christmas, but it's not really my thing - I've been trying to get rid of it all day - you're welcome to it if you would like it. It's a history of Britain through books", he replied.
And so it was that even before we entered Judd Books, Amanda had already acquired this handsome item, and the cabbie continued on his way with a slightly more generous than usual tip:
Inside I picked up these:
Thus far, the Green book is already providing an interesting, albeit depressing, insight into Trump's rise to power. I knew nothing about the Kidder book, but since he wrote two of my favourite non-fiction books (The Soul of a New Machine and House), and it was less than a fiver, there wasn't much debate in my mind.
Amanda picked up these:
after which we strolled up to St Pancras to catch the 18.31 home - which made a pleasant change from all the times we have caught the 00.15 after a concert.
Home at around 19.45, exhausted but happy.
Amanda's smartwatch told us that we'd walked around 13km during the day.
