Count the aches
I have aches in more parts of my lower body than I knew
existed. From my feet to my thighs I am
a catalogue of discomfort. It’s all the
bloody walking. I used to think that the
Barcelona underground system was absurdly ‘connected’ and I regularly bemoaned
the ridiculous distances that one had to walk between junctions, when the map
indicated that they were intersections!
I will complain about Barcelona no more, not after my experiences of the
distances that there are between lines on the London underground!
Perhaps
starting a journey in the double station of Kings Cross and St Pancras
International means that there is extra walking and I do appreciate the fact
that the entrance to the underground, while nowhere near the actual rails, is
at the end of my hotel’s street, so at least I don’t have to wait at the
irritatingly large number of traffic light systems to get over the Euston
Road! But the walking that is involved
in getting around has pushed my daily limit well above what is acceptable!
Once again!
After an unsettled night I did decide to go to Tate Modern
and was resigned to the fact that there is a fair amount of walking involved in
getting to the front door whatever underground station you decide to use.
After
having got mildly lost I made my usual way to the Rothko room and sat on the
bench like seat and wondered, yet again, if these paintings are any good.
The room
looked somehow smaller to me this visit.
Perhaps it was the chatty number of Sunday people clearly unintimidated
by the subdued lighting and the massive canvasses who filled the room. Or perhaps it was a function of my continuing
exhaustion – these pictures are not really restful. At least not to me. There is a sort of confident expression and a
satisfying monumentality, but to be truthful they left me a little cold.
I think
that I was expecting more after taking a course on Modern Art and a course
which spent some time on this artist and indeed on these paintings! But the frission that I have felt on previous
visits was not there this time.
I am sure
that I will make a beeline for them the next time I am in the gallery and it
will be instructive to see if my attitude changes again!
Lunch and a lesson
I took a bus (how often do I ignore the existence of these
vehicles when they could take me nearer to my destination than the tube!) to
Trafalgar Square and decided to go to the pub on the corner opposite St Martin
in the Field for lunch. I have this idea
that they served the most reasonably priced beer in central London.
Well, I had
a meal of olives and feta cheese as a starter with steak and kidney pudding
with mash and veg for a main with a pint of beer – for sixteen pounds and ten
pee. And not worth it, so another
tradition goes down the tubes.
Rejection!
Much walking later I almost got to the British Museum, but I
simply couldn’t be bothered and made for the Tottenham Court Road tube station
and the hotel room.
The bell
didn’t work or the people inside ignored it and they also ignored an
increasingly forceful application of the room key on the glass of the
entrance. It took minutes before the 24-hour
reception service opened the door and a fairly grumpy me stomped off to the
room.
And here I
have stayed, resting, reading and eating the remains of the M&S goodies
that survived from the gorging last night!
Tomorrow
the meeting with Clarie and Mary, but before that I have decided, after
glancing at a poster on the underground, to go and see an exhibition devoted to
Charles Rennie Macintosh in the RIBA in Portland Street. And why not!
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