Aesthetically Pleasing

Time is a precious thing. Time spent with family and good friends can be priceless. So, as time was fast running out on LouLou's latest jaunt to Blighty, and I had a day off from the daily grind, we organised a Grand Day Out.

It was like planning a military campaign. I feel sure Winston Churchill had an easier time of it sorting Dunkirk than we did trying to book tickets for the Cult Of Beauty exhibition at the V&A. There's something rotten in the state of the V&A's online booking system. I had the same palaver last month when Red came to stay. Undaunted, LouLou rang up and booked tickets by phone. Spoke to a real, live person. What a novel idea.

We booked the earliest time slot available and rolled up around 10am. The Cult Of Beauty: The Aesthetic Movement 1860 - 1900 shows how a group of artists and artisans aimed to bring beauty into all forms of everyday life. From the splendour of the Edward Burne-Jones memorial tablet at the opening of the exhibition to the Whistler etchings, the William Morris designs, the dark and wonderful illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley - it was a delight from start to finish. I particularly love the way the Aesthetic Movement artists depict their women - languorous, bohemian, dishevelled - the very opposite of the strait-laced norm for Victorian times. No swooning and overtight corsetry for those ladies:

Bet she didn't even wear knickers, let alone a corset

Quick wander through the sculptures on the way to the café (has to be said, there's something about the male form in classical sculpture that gets us girls...erm...a bit swoonsome). Had a lovely lunch - in the most gorgeous of surroundings:

Beats the shit out of McDonalds

Then scones and jam for me, coffee and walnut cake for LouLou. On to the V&A shop, and the purchase of something William Morris would approve of. "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or beautiful." So, I bought a Morris pattern cotton hanky, which will be pretty to look at and also gather any snot I might have hanging around. Beautiful and useful. I'm a budding aesthete.

Had a wander up Knightsbridge, then a quick tube hop to the Southbank. Time to redeem my payment-in-kind for seamstress favours rendered. My new membership for The Southbank Centre gave me free entry to the Tracey Emin "Love Is What You Want" at the Hayward gallery. She's much maligned, Miss Emin. I didn't know so much about her work, but now I've seen a load of it, I like it and I like her. She lays herself bare through her art, which I think a pretty brave thing to do. No stones lay unturned here, and it definitely wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea. As I was looking at a piece about menstruation, which included small perspex cases with a used tampon in each, a bloke and his wife came round the corner. He took one look at the cases and said "oh, for God's sake" and stalked off. Have a sneaky feeling Wifey dragged him kicking and screaming to see Tracey's jamrags, and he'd much rather have been in his slippers watching the cricket on telly.

She's not wrong, our Tracey

Thirsty work, this culture lark. Once we'd had our fill of Miss Emin's musings, we took in the view from the members bar at the top of the Royal Festival Hall, aided by some delicious prosecco. At this point, we discussed the modern world, and the lack of written correspondence. Previously mentioned, I'm a huge fan of receiving post, and a pact was formed that we'd aim to send each other handwritten mail every month, probably consisting of any old tripe on our mind at the time of writing. The thought of us, years down the line, as a couple of old dears with shoeboxes full of cards and letters and musings on art/music/Life/bollocks, fills me with joy. I can only imagine what a hoot it'll be to re-read what us youngsters got up to when I'm propped up by my zimmer frame.

Time stands still for no woman and we have to leg it sharpish. Shakespeare's Globe is our last port of call. This was a good idea on the part of LouLou. Dr Faustus by Christopher Marlowe is on the bill - what a great setting and superb production. Witty, dark and thought-provoking, it's the tale of a man who'd sell his soul for power and knowledge, and is brought to life in a traditional-looking yet still very modern way. And despite over 400 years having elapsed since Marlowe wrote the play, the language, humour and issues feel as current and relevant as ever. The costumes were top stuff too, particularly any of the devilish characters. I found myself spellbound and neither of us could believe it when the play finished and three hours had passed. Three whole hours. And I still didn't want it to end. Apart from the fact my arse was actually a bit numb:

Ye Good Olde-Fashioned Fun

As we waited for our bus back to Disgracelands, I remember thinking that William Morris et al would have approved of our perfect day out. Aesthetically pleasing for every single moment, it will always remain in my mind as a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

An Egg-ceptional Easter Sunday

I love banging one out before midnight (blog, that is).

Well, I don't know about you, Jesus, but I'm having a corking Easter.

Following Friday's egg-cellent evening with The Ladies (get used to the egg shit - it's not stopping any time soon), I spent a quiet Saturday with Dr Smith chit-chatting, followed by more of the bunting thing. This was made considerably easier by having a plan. Said plan consisted of me doing fabric prep indoors, followed by a few hours of cutting triangles out in the park, sitting in the lovely sun.

Seriously, bunting has taken over the fucking world. I predicted this about 3 years ago (ask Howard Local) and bless me, if it ain't come back to bite me on the arse. Not only am I making the stuff in my every waking hour, but the word is printed everywhere I read. I'm blaming That Bloody Wedding/The Festival Of Britain/Nostalgia Wankfest.

Spent a lovely afternoon (following a self-disciplined morning of triangle sewing) on the Southbank. Met up with Dr Smith again, replacing yesterday's coffees with cocktails and wine. No idea where three hours went sitting on the terrace in the sun, but it did and it was lovely (suspect chat and setting the world to rights may have had a hand). Suddenly, it's 18.20hrs and I have to scoot. The whole point of me being here is to see Peeping Tom at the BFI. Kiss Dr Smith goodbye and leg it as fast as my tiny heels will carry me.

Arrive breathless at the BFI to discover my film is sold out. What a total knobhead I am. It's a brand new print of the film, there's only two showings and the other is sold out already - why didn't I book??? I am egg-sasperated. The lovely young man behind the desk registers the dismay, but there is no seat to sell me. I walk away. But no, I think (fuelled by a desperation to see this wonderful film on the big screen...and booze), try again, ask again. So, I asked again. And he laughed. "We've even sold the wheelchair seats", he said, with a smile. He read my mind. Very funny. Then, he said, "go ask the girl on front-of-house, someone might not have turned up". So I did - and someone hadn't, bless them, Baby Jesus. And so, film Cinderella went to her Michael Powell ball. For FREEEEEEEE!!! And in an amazing seat. Sometimes, Life can be very serendipitous and kind (not often, but all the sweeter when it is).

Came out of the film (finally seen it on a big screen - knowing this film ruined Powell's career is heartbreaking - were we really so backward back then? Written by Leo Marks - years ago, I bought my Dad his book, Between Silk And Cyanide, about his cryptography work in WWII, not realising he'd written such a groundbreaking fiction/screenplay) and saw the lovely Edilaine (my kind front-of-house fairy godmother) and she waved and did thumbs up. I thumbed up back. Egg-static.

As I meandered back to Charing Cross, I noticed a text off Mr Local inviting me to hook up with him and friends. So, back to Crouch End and The Queens pub for a nightcap. When I get there, I'm thrilled to meet up again with Neil. Neil is a very funny man, and I believe he books the bands for the Reading/Leeds festival. I'm not sure - my experiences with Neil so far involve pub quizzes and football. Tonight, it turns out Neil has a piece of history in his pocket. Back in the mid 80's, Neil (lefty leaning - good bloke) was rather anti-Thatcher but with a sharp sense of humour (it hasn't left him). Following the bombings in Tripoli, Neil wrote to Colonel Gaddafi asking him to send money and tanks to help wipe Mrs Thatch out (he called himself General Neil - I'm almost crying just writing this stuff).

It's a long story. It involves Billy Bragg, who's a good friend of his. Neil's a funny man and he tells it very well. I can't do it justice here (in fact, If I'm not careful I may bore myself to death, and you too, dear Reader). But here's where it gets good. Neil got a reply to the letter. The letter that he posted in Crouch End Post Office in the mid 80's. A letter he addressed by watching the BBC news on the bombing, seeing the Jon Snow-esque map drawn on the screen to show where the BBC thought Gaddafi lived. Neil re-drew this map on the back of the envelope, so Postie would find the Colonel. The front of the envelope simply said "Colonel Gaddafi, Tripoli, Libya", a bit like a wee kiddie would send a letter to Santa.

The reply arrived and is addressed to General Neil. When he told me about this letter a few weeks ago, I thought he was making it up (we were rather drunk). But I've seen it now. And it's fo' real. It has been the icing on my Easter Egg cake (that's not actually a thing, but it should be - imagine cake/Easter Eggs mashing it up!).

It's been an egg-cellent weekend. If Easter Monday brings any more enjoyment, I might fucking pop. Or eggs-plode.

Double Bill

New York was a wonderful experience. The amount of lazing around was phenomenal (even for my gentle, slothful day-to-day existence - that is, when I'm not running round like some headless overworked chicken...aaahh, the diversity of my life). But I have to say that among the other smashing things I could actually be arsed to do, Record Store Day night (weird English?) spent in the company of LouLou, the lovely Michael Taylor and Mr Bill Callahan was right up there.

Having already heard before leaving England that Bill C was doing an in-store to promote his new album (refer to hysteria on earlier post), I'd made it a priority to check in at Other Music when I hit NY, so I knew how this would work (Rough Trade give out wristbands for their in-store stuff...no wristband, no entry). Turns out a lovely redhead called Chris had given me all the right info. "Get here before 8pm when we close the store, get straight inline outside, at 9pm we open the doors and let about the first 100 people in. Don't be late!"

On the evening, LouLou and I got to Other Music at about 7.15pm (OK, so what if I'm keen?). Wise move, ladies. Queue ALREADY. About 15 people long. Jesus. I spot the ginger gentleman Chris, and he smiles, cos I think he thinks it's funny that I'm there so early. I tell him I'm not ashamed and ready an' willin' to stand around for nearly TWO HOURS. Honest to god, I have never waited this long for any artist before in my entire life. You'd better be good, sir...

So lucky - we go back outside, and the queue has just reached a small flight of steps, so we get a seat! Oh yes, all was looking bright. And then LouLou's friend Michael turned up. I've never met him before, and he is the most charming and interesting man, with excellent taste in music (and hats - he had a new felt hat on, bought by his wife Judy - very smart). LouLou kindly went off to buy coffees, and Michael went inside to buy vinyl. I sat tight - like I'm moving one inch and giving my place up? Get outta here! (I seem to have slipped into some sort-of newyorkspeak - think of it as scene setting...). They return and there's chat, laughs and queue-watching. The beard/check shirt uniform quota is rather high. Queue is by now HUGE and it's only just 8pm. One hour to lift off.

At 9ish, true to Chris's word, the doors opened and we got inside. Other Music isn't a huge store. For anyone who knows it, it's not much bigger than Rough Trade in Covent Garden. We got pretty good spots close to the front (sadly, it transpired I had some nodding-dog idiot with a baseball cap on BACKWARDS in front of me, but no matter). Michael got us beer from the counter (hooray for PBR).

And then, he appeared. A soft-faced vision of long, thick, greasy, grey-haired loveliness. And he sang and played like a dream. Honestly, I was transfixed. I think my mouth may have been a bit open, in a lovesick gormless way. And although he played for well over an hour, it seemed to be over in seconds. (He played quite a few off the new album 'Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle' - Jim Cain, Rococo Zephyr, All Thoughts Are Prey To Some Beast, Faith Void and more, more, more).

Snap: The Lovely Michael Taylor©

And then, he stopped. I didn't want him to (really? honestly, what a surprise). LouLou had had to go outside - it was unfeasibly hot in there - so Michael and I went out to find her. But I wanted to speak to him, so after hugging Michael goodbye, I left LouLou at the door and went back inside. The crowd was starting to thin out by now, but people were still asking for things signed, pictures taking...but then I caught his eye - and all the things I'd wanted to say washed away. So, there was no 'you know we were meant to be together, let's run away to the seaside and live in a little shack near the beach' speech, followed by him whisking me up in his arms and carrying me off. I could only blurt "you are the finale of my trip to America and it was perfect, thank you", to which he replied "thank you" and then I said "I have to go" and rushed off, definitely blushing, idiot that I am. He did give me the sweetest smile, though. Shame I didn't get to sit on his knee as he played...

Second bill of the week (apart from the pile of bills that I can't pay which eagerly awaited my return on the doorstep) was Bonnie 'Prince' Billy at the Southbank on Monday. I arrived back on Monday morning, did a few chores, knew I should try and stay awake, but I curled up for 'just 5 minutes, go on, it'll be fine' and woke up 5 hours later, dazed and confused. Popped out to meet the Brummie and Ralph the dog for coffee and a chinwag (no chinwag from Ralph, just tailwag), then off down to the Thames to meet Nadine.

This isn't the first gig I've been to with Nadine since her husband Mark died. We'd been to see Vic Chesnutt and Elf Power a few weeks earlier, which was the first time I'd seen her since the funeral. Last year, Mark had given me a BPB album when we discovered that we both liked him. Shortly before he died, he'd bought two tickets for him and Nadine. I was honoured that she asked me to go with her.

It was such a lovely evening. Had a great chat with Nadine beforehand, watched the support Susanna (very good, but last night I went to see Essie Jain and I much prefer her stuff), and then Nadine had a quick smoke outside before we went back in. I suddenly realised I hadn't eaten all day (WHAT??? WHY???), so I got a savoury muffin, spinach and pinenuts or sawdust and pinenuts, it was so bloody disappointingly dry and awful.

And then the main attraction. He is jaw-droppingly good. His band are so tight, and he is animated, charming, and can do the best balance-on-one-leg-whilst-playing-a-guitar I've seen in a long time. Or, in fact, ever. His lyrics are witty, raucous, poignant, so many things. And for the first time in a long time, I cried properly at a concert. He played "I See A Darkness". And I'm filling up again just thinking about it. I'd been expecting it, dreading it, but when it came, it was more powerful than even I'd imagined.

And to hear those words, standing next to a good friend, standing in the place where her husband who loved BPB as much as she did should be standing was just a bit too much for me. And I didn't need to look round to know how she felt hearing that song. He sang it just so beautifully. When it was over, I just gave her a big hug. I had no idea what else to do.