Il pleure dans mon coeur

Comme il pleut sur la ville.

Quelle est cette langeur

Qui pénetre mon coeur?

Il pleure sans raison

Dans le coeur qui s'ecoeure

Quoi! nulle trahison?

Ce deuil est sans raison.

Londres, Mon Amour.

Went to London with the Padre yesterday; it was one of the best days I can remember. Bobbling along roads, sharing decent tunes, being harassed by Chinese Food Saleswomen at Camden Lock, winding up in a Cyber-age sex shop...


But let me explain. We were planning to go to the Tate Modern to see the Gauguin exhibition before it closes (which is next week, I believe), but the first time we could get in was 19:00. What better excuse could there be to make a day of it?

If you don't know Gauguin, he's a French post-impressionist artist from the late 19th Century and here is one of my favourites of his...

Now, we originally planned to hit The Globe and have a bit of a Shakespeare sesh, but inevitably the pull of Camden's beautiful markets got the better of us and what was meant to be a brief rummage turned into a Journey-To-The-Centre-Of-The-Earth Style foray into the bowels of the Locks and different markets around there. My favourite of these had to be the Horse Tunnel Market which was like something from Lord of the Rings crossed with Dickens. Here I found a rather dashing RAF rain-jacket and shamelessly broke my jacket embargo, and the Padre showed off his masterful haggling skills.



I also bought another hat (don't look like that, this one is spectacular!) I have wanted a cloche for ages, and I found the perfect one, so am vaaaaairy chuffed. HP bought some badminton shorts, too!

There were lots of stalls with people very eager to give us free food, and after a spot of mulled wine we were very grateful until they tried to force us to buy a whole pot of peppered chicken right after we'd had lunch. Not being hungry is, apparently, not an excuse. Our excuse earned us some abuse (rhyme intended).

Eventually it got dark, and as we wandered hither and thither (which Fry's English Delight tells me is the oldest cliché and was coined in 702) the atmosphere bloomed. Pretty lights, shadows and neon signs everywhere. There was also one of the most amazing and mind blowing shops in the world, which had a queue to get in and out called CyberDog; this was basically a giant, imposing, music-pumping cyber-fashion shop.

At first it looks (and sounds) like a club - but at 5pm this wasn't really likely. You go in and there are robotic bodies lining the walls and some shelves offering things like Astronaut Food and Stuffed Toy Microbes (Black Death was my favourite, but not worth £15). There are also people dancing like robots on balconies.


Then you descend into the abyss down an escalator into the main shop which is awash with neon and science-fiction inspired awesomeness, including bags made of floppy-disks, skin-tight clothes and cyborg shutter shades. People are also paid to walk around in various cyber gear looking like they are androids.


Naturally, we were having a great time, and ambled around, down some more steps, only to be confronted with BONDAGE TAPE! and a pole dancer and various electronic sexy things. Did NOT see that coming. Quite amusing though. Haha! (And thus, an anecdote was born.)


After this, we pottered about for a bit before deciding we ought to get a wiggle on and didn't want any more pepper chicken (until our later SFC on the way home) and we needed to traverse London to the good old Tate (or rather the good Modern Tate...) So we hopped back on the tube to Waterloo.

At this point (it being night and all) my sense of direction let us down and we went for a mile or so in the wrong direction down the Thames! We did, however, get some spectacular touristly views (see above.) This meant that, at 5 to 7 we had to make a mad dash of it to get to the gallery. Then commenced a conversation about Ai Wei Wei's Sunflower Seeds :


Me: Look over there - we discussed those at school.


Dee: It just looks like grit.


Me: Hey, it's conceptual. *ramble about society*


Dee: -also, the artists name is I wee-wee. Hehehe.


Me: *sigh*




The Gauguin exhibition was pretty good. I wasn't much of a fan of the work of his I had seen before, but it has always been Herr Padre's favourite, so it couldn't be missed. However, I found a lot of the stuff there useful and interesting, especially the sketchoodles which he would no doubt have abhorred anybody but himself seeing. Poor chap, died of syphillis.




Slightly let down that they had moved Bacon's Tryptich for the Base of a Crucifixion (above, one of my all-time Tate Modern faves) as that was one I was really looking forward to seeing again. They did, however, have a few others there instead, including the tryptich he did for his lover chap who committed suicide. Properly sad and emotive and excellent, his work is. And also proof that my taste in art is really morbid compared to Padre's enjoyment of quaint French villagers and rolling hills and Tahitian lounging women...



Finally, the bastards closed the gift shop before I could spend the remainder of my worldly cash. Being told no by an aristocratic sounding woman not good for your cultural street cred (especially when she is in 6-inch stillettos to your flat-heeled Dr Martens). Left brusquely in a bristling bustle of cloche, swishy coat and frilly brolly.



Being ostentatiously cultural this way is a real drain to one's alcohol reserves - and after this, what could possibly be more cultural than a visit to an excellent pub? Nothing, I hear you cry, with joy and apprehension as to whether we did or didn't manage this at about 11pm in Waterloo. (We did.)
We went to THIS charming little alery, The Hole In The Wall. The story goes that when my father and his school chums used to go on trips to London in Sixth Form, their teachers brought them to this very watering hole for a post-play pint; naturally, it was an unavoidable pilgrimmage. Situated as it is in a hole in the wall under a railway bridge, the bar was barrel-shaped, wood pannelled and rumbled occasionally with the noise of trains going over. They also served TEA BEER. Beer brewed with tea. It was gorgeous. Here is some modelled by a paternal relation of mine.

Overall the trip was astronomically good in all manner of ways, despite us arriving home at about 2am (dirty stop-outs) and my having to be up at an unearthly hour of the morning for a First Aid course. Jolly gosh darned spiffing and dashed good, it was!

Coincidences...

Freaky, freaky things are afoot. Anyone who follows me on Facebook will know that I got a bit excited about Thomas Ruggles Pynchon the other day after he was mentioned to me. Because I've wanted to start to get back into online writing bits, this evening I started up a bio for a Head of Science chappy called Roland James Pynchon (because the name was too good to not use) which is fine and dandy.

Following this, however, I was rummaging through shuffle and got absolutely freaked out when THIS song came on:



The lyrics of which include:
'Poor professor Pynchon had only good intentions when he
Put all his bunsen burners away'

Serious business, and also freaky as I could have sworn I'd never heard the name before Don mentioned it in English the other day. Freaky Deaky!
(Incidentally, Andrew Bird is a winner, and you should listen to him. (Y))

Don't judge a box by it's card-board.

Padre bought a box of books in the Woburn Auction (the auction is made up of boxes of odds and ends) for just £5. In this box, we have two copies of Mein Kampf. One of them is an original German edition from 1938. A similar one of these sold on e-bay for about £150. The other is an English edition from the following year (e-bay reckons about £50!) The rest of the books are an array of very interesting Nazi Germany related books including one by Goerring. And they're all pretty good condition, too.

My mind is blown. Am going to offer to pay Padre for the box of books (he wouldn't have bought it if I wasn't interested in such things), or steal the MK's away to fund my increasingly expensive life.

The weird, weird scenario of Hitler directly contributing to my education fees may be on the horizon.

Mind. Blown.

Grabbing adulthood by the horns.

Today, thus far, has been one of my newly established 'admin days'. This, I believe, is a very important part of adult behaviour which I have never really had to face much before.

In the past few weeks, I have had e-mails coming out of my ears demanding my presence here, here and here. My dad also bought an unprecedented amount of tickets to shows and functions and things for Christmas presents, so already my calendar is overflowing.

Anyone who knows me will probably know this is very odd - I tend to be the one with little going on, who can say very quickly off-hand whether she's free one day or another. No more, apparently.

So I have spent a while organising my calendar, sorting it out with a diary, and filling in forms and e-mailing people about things. It's freaky, and I've had to put on a tweed blazer just to put me in the right mind-set.

I have also, as part of The Month of No Procrastination (i.e. January) FINALLY sent off my Driving License application, with the right money, with the right photos, documents and various approvals of people who, worryingly, consider me mature enough to drive. To drive, maybe - to fill in a simple form, throw it in an envelope with some cash and sufficient proof of my existence, not so much. Haha.

But the pressure of having to ask for lifts to absolutely every one of my sudden callings took its toll, and I have finally bitten the bullet.

Look out, kids. In about two weeks time, I cannot guarantee your safety on Her Majesty's roads. (The queen owns the roads, surely? Or is it the government? A debate for another, less busy day.)

Tata for now!

Getting back into doing my portfolio. Forgot how much I love and miss writing Basil. Baw.

HAPPY NEW YEAR CHASPS.

HAPPY NUDE YEAR.

merry 2011 from Deeeeeeeeeeeeee