It has been a week since the attack in Borough Market and though I try not to write about politics, a day waking up to a hung parliament. For the locals, like me, having been through the bluff fail of Cameron, it all seems so a re-enactment of the same. Brexit and now this. I have to feel sorry for May’s naivety – we have been through a little too much in the past few months.
London is quiet early in the morning. Tourists rise later, locals sleep in. Best time to discover the city. The streets are wet from washing, cleansed from reveller’s debris the night before. Weekend early glow when seats are free on the tube and the architecture rises to the summer day. Learnt here, be out early with the sun, she sinks quickly to cloud. I like the solitary walk before the crowds come. If the crowds come after the attack.
Borough Market stirs in the aftermath. Flowers where children fell. How to explain that we do not avoid but endeavour as this city has always done? We do. It is who we are. Fatigued but resilient. I like that. Southwark Cathedral is lit with candles. I light one too.
When life stirs troubled waters, I need art. Once took a special person to the place. For lunch in the conservatory but more to show the three pieces that hold my imagination. The Laughing Cavalier by Frans Hals.
Visited the Frans Hals museum in Haarlem not so long ago, so I can relate.
The pallet of pink, turquoise and pistachio green are so unusual and delightful. And … my favourite.
Dante and Virgil Encountering the Shades of Francesca de Rimini and Paolo in the Underworld
The movement in this piece of art has me standing before it and imagining the passion of real love, despite all.
So Art became soup, chilled and lovely:
From the Wallace Museum I walked with my friend of such long ago days to take her for a view of London few know of. At the top of the National Portrait Gallery. I love this view, seeing Ben, the big one, Nelson’s column, the National Gallery and St. Martin’s in the Fields. For afternoon Tea.
So, from the electric Borough to the culture of the Wallace Museum to portraits of Henry and the Queen, afternoon tea and strawberry Bellini’s it was a Saturday in London that offers all, gives without question and then home.
The evening on my balcony did not end. A walk I announced, I have to go for a walk. To the village. An evening not to waste as we have so few of these glorious offerings. And as I walked, the buses drove by, joggers puffed (most looking as if they were beginning of the first time), on their mobiles, with their music. Children on scooters, dog walkers and late night returners home with orange bags of groceries, I walked to the village and back. Always present the ducks honking from the park.
When you live with so little summer, these evenings are intoxicating. To be cherished. On my return from the walk, I sat on my balcony, as do all the residents in the building. Wave to the neighbours – we do not speak but we are close. I think they are used to seeing me in my gown with the wine and computer by now. My office. My birdcage.
Today was a good day. I like days like that.