Determined to go to St Paul’s. Thought mass started at 10am. Fortunately it started at 10.15am. Sat in the row reserved for Amen Court without realizing it. Then a Virgir (or was she a Warden?) addressed the man sitting closer to the aisle to tell him as much, and he said he was a friend of someone from Amen Court, and she apologized. ‘I don’t recognize everyone, I’m so sorry.’ His name was Nigel Chapel, and he’s a nurse and regular congregant at St Andrew’s over on High Holborn. He told me there’s a service Wednesday night, and people stay for a potluck dinner afterwards. He also mentioned St Ethelberger’s two blocks down from Liverpool Street Station as an inter-faith church, big on truth and reconciliation and such. He crossed himself at every opportunity, and bowed over slightly to the Deacons, and even knelt to pray. I wonder what he thought of my not crossing myself or taking communion. He sang to the tune and I secretly hoped he appreciated my sort-of sight-reading the music. Not that I can do that on my own, but it does help with singing along if the person next to you knows the tune. At the 10.15am the sermon was by the Reverend, a young woman with a short black bob, and she talked about how the god of the Old Testament was seen as wrathful, and the god of the New Testament was seen as forgiving – but how in fact god had many dimensions throughout. I didn’t feel moved. At the 11.30am the sermon was by David Jenkins, the Archbishop of Sudbury (or some such), and he wove in the liberation of the Chilean miners. He said he’d been invited to speak 12 months ago. Talk about leaving your speech to the last minute. He talked about how their faith was what kept them going. And how having faith gives life a framework, and meaning, that is otherwise lacking. No duh. Question is whether that so-called ‘meaning’ derived from imagining a god-given framework is in fact meaningful at all.
After the service I walked past the M&S to Ave Maria lane and around Amen Court, just to check it out. Nigel had told me where to find it. I had hoped he’d ask me for a coffee after the service, but he left right away. He seemed an interesting bloke. Works with victims (survivors) of domestic violence. Commented that it’s the best job he’s ever had – after running the neurology department at St Bart’s. ‘It’s the closest to a vocation I’ve come.’ He also said he hadn’t realized how much violence there was in his own life until he took this job. Seemed like someone with his head and heart in the right place(s). Though I didn’t like the way he smelled. Nothing dire, just vaguely off-putting, like I was afraid of getting close enough to smell his breath. He kept popping these sweets into his mouth. Maybe he was cognizant of his odor. Or maybe the sweets were causing it.
It was a beautiful day out. Sunny and just warm enough for a double layer. Had a Pret latte and tomato-and-cheese hot croissant sitting out on the monument bench, for old times’ sake. Checked Citibank’s opening hours, and then popped into Black’s to see about a mosquito net. Browsed the Lonely Planet Volunteer and Africa guides. Contemplated buying them to return them in a few days. Satisfied myself with the information I gleaned browsing on the spot. I ought to get in touch with Sean G in Tangiers. And the guide says that Mauritania is more interesting than Overlanders would imply by shooting through without stopping. Checked out backpacks as well, because I’m thinking of doing some traveling with Anna, and for that would need something lightweight I can carry on my back. Thought the 30+5 liter Black’s pack was the best in terms of size, design, and material. But didn’t buy anything. Spoke with Wren later and she said, ‘We have a packs of different sizes here; take a look and see what you’d like to borrow.’ She also reminded me to check in with Anna about a mosquito net. They cost about GBP 30 for a single, and Anna knows a tour guide who sells second-hand ones left by his customers, cheap.
Ambled down Fleet Street, and dropped in at St Bride’s because Ensign had been. Its steeple inspired wedding cake design. The bombing in WWII revealed the crypt, where there is now an interesting display about the early designs of the church (the first iterations date back to the 11th century) and the history of printing on Fleet Street (dating back to 1570 or thereabouts, when the first press was installed).
Cut down the alley by the Cheshire Cheese (the pub by the west entrance to Goldman Sachs) to the house of Dr Johnson, the creator of the first English language dictionary. Gough Square leads into New Street Square, where a box shaped building covered in plants occupies the center of the square. It’s the Land Securities headquarters, from which the properties around the square are managed. I was taking a photo of the address, and struggling to capture the hazy print against the glass, when two security guards came out and asked if they could help me. ‘No.’ Afterwards we struck up a conversation, and the smarter of the two said they’d been instructed that LS didn’t want people taking any photos of the buildings on the square. Counter-terrorist measures, perhaps?
Bottomed out onto Fleet Street again by the Courts of Justice. Followed some tourists down a side alley into Temple, where a gate was propped open. Passed the Middle Temple, and the Gardens, like when I’d visited on Open Houses weekend; but the far gate on the Embankment was locked this time and I had to double back to Fleet Street. I almost caught a bus back to Waterloo, but instead dodged into the courtyard of Somerset House. The fountain was still on. A pair of older men were walking through the spurts. Not worth getting my boots wet for that. The sun was golden. Walked through the Seamen’s Building out to the terrace overlooking the Thames, then West to Waterloo Bridge. Lovely light over the river. A rescue dingy speeding towards Blackfriar’s Bridge, a joy ride no doubt. The flashing lights on the National Theatre advertising Hamlet at the Olivier. Decided to see if there were tickets left for this week. There aren’t. But I can queue tomorrow morning for GBP 10 tickets, or ring up for GBP 5 standing tickets, which are available since the show is sold out.
Caught sight of a ‘How to do Accents’ book through the window of the lobby bookstore, and was intrigued. But it was in plastic. Leafed through some sample monologue books for auditions, but was not inspired. Then caught sight of ‘Bird by Bird’ on the ‘Writing/Directing’ shelf, and sat and read the first four chapters. Paul gave me a copy years ago, but I never cracked the cover, I don’t think. Best to read it ‘on the sly’ now at the bookstore. Again, contemplated buying it and returning it – but I’m more likely to read the damn thing if I just return and read it on the spot. There’s a book out about Fela, the play about the Nigerian musician that’s about to open. And a ‘Hidden Walks’ about London book caught my eye.
Ducked in to the BFI, and through the sliding door to the Mediatheque. No TV’s were free, and I was hungry and tired anyway – but I do want to return and watch a movie there. The Film Theatre and the bar were buzzing.
Stopped in at the Sainsbury’s for some Kumula wine on sale, and once home devoured a large bowl of fetucinni with left-over haddock and tomatoes. And a container of Covent Garden Squash and Sweet Potato Soup. Watched ‘The Head of Ife’, which Susan has on DVD – the story of a bronze sculpture from Nigeria that changed the way Westerners looked at African art (and craftsmanship). The first Westerner saw it (or one like it) in 1910 or so, but it was then ‘re-discovered’ (and bought and traded to the British museum) only in 1958 or so. The bronzes from Benin are better known – I’ve seen some, though didn’t realize they were from Benin. I ought to visit the African Galleries at the British Museum before I leave.
Finished ‘The Beginning of Spring’ by Penelope Fitzgerald. Wonderfully keenly and drily observed story set in 1913 of Frank Reid, an Englishman born and bred in Moscow but educated and married in England around , who takes his wife back to Russia to run his father’s printing press. The bookends of the story are her leaving him unexpectedly and inexplicably, and her returning just as unexpectedly and inexplicably 187 pages later. It’s revealed at the end that she had (or wanted to have) an affair with Selwyn Crane, the Tolstoy disciple and Reid Press accountant. Meanwhile Selwyn has leaned on Frank to take on an impoverished Russian girl, Lisa Ivanova, as governess for the three motherless children – she is another Tolstoy disciple and has a bewitching effect on men (including or especially Frank Reid). Frank’s observations of his Russian employees, the taxi (or sled) drivers and station masters, and his neighbor Kuriatin are hilarious. The bits about Lisa are vague and vaguely magical – and, I found, out of keeping with Frank’s usually keen eye for detail. Maybe that’s supposed to be an indication of how Lisa appeals to the right brain of a typically left brained man; but I found it un-compelling.
Susan returned on the Eurostar from Paris about 8pm. I described my run-in with Sharon, and she made sympathetic comments about selfish and self-centered people in general, and Israelis in particular. She’d vegged in Paris; hadn’t felt like doing much. Brought back a bagful of red peppers with her. ‘They were going cheap.’ Sat and drank a bottle of red wine and had some carrot soup and nut bread with some Montegomery cheddar (‘the way cheddar is suppose to taste; not like that rubbery stuff they sell in a lot of stores’). Up till 1am-ish chatting, blogging, browsing what restaurants have 2-for-1 deals on.
Didn’t talk to Sharon today. Did talk with Lucy. She’s just back from Dundee where George had a solo show. Got the red carpet treatment. Nice hotel and all meals paid for. Wednesday a curator friend from Yale is having an opening at the National Portrait Gallery, and is invited over for dinner Thursday. Friday she hoped I’d come out with Kaz and Deidre and Frank. Tomorrow (Monday), the only thing she has on is ‘Ba Ba Babies’ (or some such) – mums singing nursery songs at a local community center, with their babies rapt on their laps.
Ensign was due to leave for the US today. He moved his flight up because he’d contracted a touch of bronchitis, and knew it’d take him some days to recover, and figured he could better do that back home in Chicago than with Ama (or at a hostel) in London. Would have been nice to see him, but it isn’t meant to be.
