Took myself along on Tuesday 15th to support Children in Need (the less charitable part of me thinks: Christ, is that still going?) by watching the OU’s Belly Dance Club (yes, there is one such) give a lunchtime performance. They weren’t bad; not that I am much of an assessor of belly dancing. The most wacky number was a woman performing to a piece of music called Shaskin; her performance allegedly featured tribal fusions choreography as taught to her by one Darkstar. She was dressed not in more traditional belly dance gear but as though auditioning for a part in Mary Poppins. Puzzling.
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Mum came to spend a long overdue weekend in Reading on the 16th; we had a sandwich lunch in Caversham’s Costa, during which we both seethed at the undisciplined children being allowed to run screaming about the café (it has become a distressingly popular haunt for middle-class mummies), then later in the afternoon wandered down to an art exhibition at something billed as ‘Studio 21’ on Patrick Road, though it turned out to be simply No. 21 Patrick Road, with lots of art in the front room. We perused briefly. On the Saturday, we went up to London where we took a bus to the Wellcome Collection to visit the ‘Death: A Self-Portrait’ exhibition. Quite interesting – certainly a range of stuff. I was reasonably charmed by Kawanabe Kyosai's ‘Frolicking Skeletons’, as pictured in
this Guardian piece. We had a quick cup of tea before walking down through Bloomsbury to High Holborn and lunching at the
Kimchee Restaurant, where we sampled radish kimchi and bulgogi in a noodle soup, along with a bottle of the rather underwhelming Hite each, as I felt we should sample some Korean beer.
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After lunch, we walked to nearby
Lincoln’s Inn Fields to visit
Sir John Soane’s Museum, which I’d heard of but never visited. We had to queue for around 20 minutes to get in, as they only let a certain number of people in at a time – probably a good idea. For some reason, you are obliged to put your handbag into a see-through polythene bag, but are then allowed to carry it around with you. The museum is certainly a curiosity, though it’s so dimly lit that it’s hard to see some of the exhibits, and certainly Mum found it hard to read the guidebook that she’d paid £2 for on the way in. On the way out I bought a fridge magnet showing a head of the goddess Diana.
Digressing briefly:
the story of Diana and Actaeon has to be one of the most unjust stories in Roman mythology. I mean: if you don’t want a man to come across you naked, then don’t take a bath in the middle of a wood.
Ruth cooked her poshed-up version of toad in the hole in the evening, featuring cherry tomatoes and rosemary. On the Sunday, Mum and I went for breakfast at the Alto Lounge followed by a walk around Caversham, before I saw her to her train.
Received an email a week or so ago from the OU's LGBT Network (rapidly becoming a source of comedy) from a PhD student doing a thesis on shifts in lesbian women's mating preferences across the menstrual cycle. Reminded me of a Japanese PhD student I once met while a postgrad at Essex, an acquaintance of my friend Shiho's, who was doing a PhD allegedly in something erudite-sounding which I've forgotten, but which basically amounted to pornography. I remember him being intrigued over dinner to know how I, being British, felt about British people's easy access to pornography, before I was forced to disappoint him by informing him that I didn't buy a great deal of it. It did sound as though he was getting to study a good many jazz mags while classing them as research material.
‘Brit Cops’ moment last Tuesday when there was a knock on my door around 7pm and I opened it to be greeted by a uniformed police officer, saying that there’d been a report of a crowd of people outside with knives, and had I heard anything. Apparently my neighbour Fraser had phoned them with this report, but appeared to have since gone to ground as there was no reply from his house despite their repeated banging on his door. Was obliged to say that I hadn’t heard anything, and she proceeded to ask if I’d heard anything going on next door (nothing different from usual) and how much I knew about my neighbour (not much; doesn’t appear to work; often seen with can in hand; did tell me once that he had mental health problems). She came in for a peek over my back wall, but no baying mobs in sight, so left, thanking me for my time.
Another nice Information Office outing last Wednesday, this time to the
Bekash in
Stony Stratford, a Victorian suburb on the north-west edge of Milton Keynes. Stony appeared to have a number of curry houses, judging by my walk from the bus stop, but the Bekash is allegedly the oldest. The food was pretty nice and compensated for the recent Bina experience. Carol, our newish Forecasting manager, kindly gave me a lift home - Carol owns a house in Bakewell but has been renting in MK during the week (good to know I'm not the only one), though she has recently abandoned Bletchley (don't blame her, from what I've seen of it) for Monkston, a pleasanter-looking district near to Walton Hall.
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In a moment of extravagance last Saturday, Ruth and I purchased a new and streamlined DAB radio/CD player to replace my cheap old one (left) which we sense is about to give out. We sat for a while on Saturday afternoon marvelling at the sound quality. It does have a blinkin' iPhonePod dock, but luckily it's not too prominent. Admittedly they are pretty and have lots of cool accessories, but I'm still resolutely not venturing into the world of Apple.
Discovered on Monday that the redway through Simpson/
Walton that I often take as part of my morning route to work had become a raging torrent. Well, not quite a raging torrent, but certainly an area of quite fast-flowing water that I wouldn't have ventured through. Turns out
Caldecotte Lake - one of MK's several balancing lakes - had overflowed its barrier at one end (which it is, apparently, meant to do in times of flood).
MKNews have put out
a piece reassuring locals that the lakes should return to normal soon.
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After lunch, we walked to nearby Lincoln’s Inn Fields to visit Sir John Soane’s Museum, which I’d heard of but never visited. We had to queue for around 20 minutes to get in, as they only let a certain number of people in at a time – probably a good idea. For some reason, you are obliged to put your handbag into a see-through polythene bag, but are then allowed to carry it around with you. The museum is certainly a curiosity, though it’s so dimly lit that it’s hard to see some of the exhibits, and certainly Mum found it hard to read the guidebook that she’d paid £2 for on the way in. On the way out I bought a fridge magnet showing a head of the goddess Diana..jpg)
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