In the city

Accompanied by inanity and excess. I was on standby to work an overtime shift today, but two people who'd been off sick resumed for the new week, so my services weren't required, and I was left to my own devices. I prevaricated about what to do, before deciding in mid-morning to indulge in a change of scenery from my customary hermetic isolation, heading up to London. I didn't really have any clear objective in mind, although there was a vague plan lurking in the background, which didn't even come close to fruition, and never really had a chance of doing so, hence the inanity. Having caught the train to my usual 'commute' station, using my normal season ticket, and then caught a bus from the station to as close to Central London as was possible, my next connection led to whatever small purpose the day achieved, because I was able to head more or less directly to Tate Modern, for what was my second visit there. My previous visit, getting on for two years ago, had been to see a specific temporary exhibition, whereas today's trip was a much more general, random amble around the galleries. I saw works by some very well known artists, including Picasso, Braque, Monet and Matisse, but one particular pair of pictures, hung close together, made me feel as though I'm not quite so much of a poseur about modern art as might be assumed. The first of the two I looked at was by Kandinsky, and I found it very garish, with patches of almost fluorescent colour. The second picture I didn't recognise at all, but my first impression was 'I like that'. When I read the information panel, the painting proved to be by Mondrian, easily my favourite artist, one of his late relatively figurative works before he graduated to the completely abstract, primary colour style he's best known for. And here it is.

It's as well there was some degree of aesthetic satisfaction in the day, because the cuties were very much conspicuous by their absence. There was one 'near miss', marginally beyond the upper end of my 'window of attraction', at the gallery, just too old, just too deep-voiced (when I heard him speak to his companions) and 'grown-up' looking, leaving me wishing I'd encountered him a year or two ago, because I have no doubt that he would've been delicious at that stage. All that was left for me to do, given my abject lack of restraint, was to end up in the Wetherspoons pub near 'work town' station, drinking far too much Stella, before wobbling back to 'domicile-ville', and the coup de grace to any remote hope of a healthy living day, in the shape of a Chinese takeaway. Oh well, I've got to die of something, it might as well be something appetising!

Love & best wishes to all

Sammy B