Today started off with a planned walk over to the Heath. I donned my wellies, stuck my headphones on, and set off in the drizzle. The Pixies, QOTSA, Black Mountain got me into my stride. But soon the sun came out, and it was a gorgeous day. As I hit the bottom of the park, I decided to sidetrack and headed into Highgate Cemetery. The last time I came here was when Lou was stranded here from NYC without a visa. That was some time ago, and as we'd gone into the cemetery, the weather turned freaky, like the scene out of The Omen where the priest fella gets spiked...
Nothing like that today - brilliant sunshine followed the earlier downpour, so the cemetery smelled lovely - fresh damp greenery, loads of lavender (not a whiff of rotting flesh to be had). I was looking for some of the headstones I'd found on the last visit, so I could snap them and send them over to Lou in NY (is it a bit odd to send someone pics of gravestones? Hmmm...). My favourites are:
I like the fact that Gordon didn't think Ernest was an important middle name
Great - "Grand Artificer of Mysteries"...much better idea than putting 'playwright' for Mr Sleuth (bet he's turning in his grave about that Jude Law remake, though)
Old Big 'ead himself (no, not Brian Clough, it's Karl Marx)
But taking first prize in the Best Headstone in Highgate competition by a bloody long chalk:
Stunning. I laughed out loud when I saw it. It belongs to Patrick Caulfield, a Pop generation artist, who taught at Chelsea Art School and was a fellow of the Royal Academy. Funnily enough, he's a major inspiration for Julian Opie, who owned the studio I used to work in. Don't know Mr Caulfield's work, but that's a cracking idea for a headstone.I listened to Vaughan Williams' Greensleeves and The Lark Ascending while I was in the cemetery - suddenly, Josh Homme didn't quite fit in...
On the way back, I walked through the park. I sat on a bench and watched some oddbod with a metal detector. Every time his stick thing made a bleep, he got his trowel (oh yeah, the dude had digging tools) and dug a bit of the lawn up to see what treasure lay beneath. I prayed for Parkie to spot him and kick his fat hairy arse for making holes all over the lovely green pastures. Then, Treasurehunter spots me on the bench and shouts out, "nice wellies, I wish I had some, cos my feet are getting a bit wet". WTF do I say to that? I smiled weakly. He was a Northerner too. Oh, the shame.
