Didn't we have a luverly time?

For some reason which I can't quite fathom, this blog-keeping malarkey was so much easier when I didn't have to work for a living. But, seeing as I do, less will have to be more. And I'm sure it is. Less that is. Less said the better. Who said that? Les.

I have torn myself away from the Eurovision Song Contest to do this. Actually, that's not quite as a generous gesture as it may appear. But I can still hear Tel's baileys-oiled tones in the background, so I think I'll pull through. Scary stuff.




Yeah - I went to Margate. It was great. Here's a picture - nice ha? Then there was Broadstairs (nothing like Broadmoor which I had got stuck in my head) and nothing like wide steps which would have been more appropriate. Anyway, Broadstairs is classy. It's like I imagine an English seaside town should be - but without the disappointing tat which I always forget until I get there. At Broadstairs even the knickerbocker glories wear sensible pants.










My art course continues apace. That Tintoretto was handy with a paintbrush and make no mistake.

Standing up in the National Gallery for two plus hours at the end of the working day is a bit of a challenge, but it's a question of mind over matter. I don't mind so it doesn't matter.












The Wine Fair at Excel blew me away. More wine than time to drink it. People were spitting great gobfuls of wine in every direction, it was a skill just to avoid the flying globules of gargled vino as they swooshed all over the shop. Personally I prefer to swallow. Spitting just seems ungrateful and ungraceful. Unfortunately this leads to wobbly leg syndrome and a tendency to leave before the end of the party due to one of my heads coming one.




More art - this time Crivelli - I like this guy! He doesn't go over the edges when he colours in.

I was fortunate enough to be taken to the Oslo Court restaurant in St Johns Wood for lunch. This has to be the campest dining experience in London. It's the waiter with the dessert trolley that took the wafer. When I said I wanted the cheesecake he retorted, "Yes, I think I already know what you want darling." Damn sauce. Actually, the sauce was quite nice.

Next week - Norway! I'm going to stay in a wooden hut up a mountain next to a lake.
Will there be a lonely goatherd?

And is Heidi's grandfather misunderstood for good reason? This, I intend to find out. Yeah, OK, wrong country. But let's just put that down to artistic licence. Which I intend to get, just incase you're thinking of sending round one of those detector vans. I'll go to the Post Office on Monday and fill in a form and get it rubber-stamped. You see if I don't.

Come back soon.

Head full of dreadful

Jesse, I'm lonely, come home

Whew, where did that week go? And why am I asking you? Who are you anyway? You come in here, giving it all that.

Quick re-cap. I came of age on Tuesday. Of the age of 37 that it is. After work H and I went for dinner at Gabriels Wharf and then on to see the utterly fantastic Janis Ian (An Evening With) at the Queen Elizabeth Hall.
How good is Janis Ian? About as bloody brilliantly good as anybody singing with a guitar can be. It was a goose-pimply evening - and that's not a criticism of the air-co. The new stuff was great, Janis was funny, and those old songs. Wow. And the silver ball atop of the icing on the well-iced cake was Jesse as an encore. I could hardly speak when we left and walked back to Waterloo.

I have started taking evening classes again - and this Wednesday marked the second part of 'Collecting for the Nation'. It's all about how the major London art galleries came into being...why they exist at all and how changes in taste have shaped what they are.
The evening was spent at the National Gallery peering at the paintings which formed the orginal collection at 100 Pall Mall. Fascinating stuff. Well I think so.

Thursday I'm back on my bike and the sun is shining down like it's some crazy hot country. The tube lines buckle, and Jude nearly collapses from heat exhaustion halfway round her evening walk. I have started to read 'The Bell' by Iris Murdoch and only a dozen or so pages in I am totally captivated by Murdochism. I find it hard to believe that I have only ever read one novel by her - 'The Sea, The Sea' - which has to be one of the best books I have ever read. There's nothing like having a really good book on the go.

Friday and I've got Monday on my mind...or is that...oh I don't know. I finally get an evening to paw over my lovely birthday presents. Mmm...CDs: Lou Reed's The Bells, Toyah's Anthem (oh yes - I am not ashamed to admit that I regard this as a classic pop album), Belle & Sebastian, the Kooks, The Zutons...then there's the DVD's - Sparks Live, Dave's Serious Moonlight (ooh that hair - wowser - yellow meringue), Woody Allen in Play It Again Sam and Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. Blimey, hardly time for my tea.

Saturday means an extra long walk for Jude, and for me, a day spent trying to figure out how my CD/DVD writer (another fabulous birthday present) works. The instructions are clearly written for somebody who knows what the hell he is doing and that ain't me. I manage to turn my photos into multiple files and generally get confused. Please will somebody offer to help me? So I do something I can do and cook dinner. We relax with a bottle of Rioja and the dark dark dark black comedy Happiness, which is anything but. A little Larry David raises our spirits before lights out.

Which brings me bang up to date with today. The Docklands Museum with K,H&B. It's good - really - especially if you live here I guess, and I do. Lots of things dug out of the silt. Clay pipes, whale jawbones and other bits and bobs. Great photos too by Crispin Hughes.

This was followed by an al fresco lunch at Browns which somehow lasted 3 hours. Jude and I dodged the footballs in the park. I am so paranoid about walking past people playing football because always always always the ball ends up coming flying towards me, and they always always always expect me to kick the ball back. Well, I am well aware that if I so much as attempt to kick a football I end up embarrassing myself. It never goes in the right direction, or I miss it. Or I fall over. So I pretend I am both unware of the balls which roll towards me and deaf to the cries of 'Oy, mate, over 'ere!' Jude is so ashamed of me and who can blame her.

After a rejuvenating skin peel I'm ready for my birthday

  

Twist in my sobriety

Has it really been that long? Cripes, what have I been doing with myself? Must try harder - although I think I said that before somewhere.

Anyway, here I am again, on the cusp of my 37th birthday. Time is waiting in the wings. But hold up, things are about to get interesting again around here. It's going to be like 2004 all over. Straight up guv and make no mistake Mary Poppins.

Move a little closer and I'll tell all. But first I'll get my birthday out of the way.


Come back soon.