April 22nd, 2013

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dashing through the snow

You find me miserable and sniffly today with a nasty horrible post holiday bug, and especially miserable as I had to miss something last night I had tickets for but there was nothing to be done (I was in no fit state and the weather was shockingly awful), but still sulking/grieving and annoyed, because, by hell, I didn't let anything stop me on my holidays.

Oh, that holiday. Loved it. Brief, too brief, but I packed in a lot for my limited time and though I missed hooking up with some friends and family, I had fun, I met many nice, kindly folks (especially north of the border) and I saw things I never dared think I would.

History happened, too. I always wanted to be in the UK the day She died, and so I was (and I have the souvenir editions to prove it). The experience on the street was entirely different from the way it was reported, just a lot of people talking quietly about how they or a loved one had had their hopes and dreams stolen. No wild parties, just on going lives, rudely readjusted.

I will type up the diaries later, but basically, wow. Just, wow. Landed at 1.35pm, was on the steps of the National Portrait Gallery at 4.15pm to see the Man Ray exhibition, whom I love. Sadly it meant trying to see tiny, tiny images over the shoulders of a rugby scrum, and they were built like rugby forwards, too, so I didn't see much, but what I did see I loved. I love his symmetry, his play of light and dark, his quirky. Also saw an exhibition of Native American portraits (only fair after last year) which were competent at best but as a record, outstanding, then I rippe through the rest of the gallery before cloding time. Hello, Drake, Byron, Jane, Charlotte, William...and, and the most adorable pic of Roger Moore from the set of the Saint.
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