WE HIT London for a weekend break.
“You always chat to people,” says my other half.
Perhaps it’s in my DNA. Or perhaps it’s because when your job has been all about chatting to people, it comes naturally. Even in London, they chat back.
And it is a glorious sunny morning that screams, “Climate change; run for your life!” in Parliament Square and we walk around admiring the statues. Here’s Lloyd George with his cloak whisked back in the wind and there is a stocky Winston with a large bird dropping on his noggin.
But look, the XX chromosomes have got a look in, there is a proud and new Millicent Fawcett.
“The first woman in the square... it only took them to 2018,” I tell a Japanese tourist. We share the common language of a big thumbs up... no words needed.
And because it is a glorious morning and we are crossing Westminster Bridge, I break out into: “Earth has not anything to show more fair” and think back to that golden dawn when Wordsworth stood on this very bridge looking up the river towards Tower Bridge and down to the Houses of Parliament... aglitter in the early sunlight.
The young Croatian couple are equally inspired.
“Can you take our photograph?” they ask.
“Are you here for long?” we ask.
“Just one day, cheap flights,” they smile.
Then we walk and walk.
Once, in the long ago, we were sitting at a table outside the Cafe des Arts in Paris when a woman asked us to point her towards the river.
“When you find the river in Paris, you find your way to everything,” she said. She was right.
In London, we shun the tube, take to the river bank and pick our way past the London Eye and on up to the Globe theatre and on to the Borough Market, bridge by bridge.
We stop to see a beautiful exhibition – Pierre Bonnard – which goes on for room after room of glorious colour – turquoise and yellow, orange and azure blue; we are whisked to the south of France, looking down on orange tiled rooftops and green Cypress trees.
“Beautiful,” I say to a young woman with a sketch pad capturing the scene.
“It’s for my GCSE,” she tells me.
“You’re talented,” I say, watching the vibrant colours chase each other across the page.
“I’m not coming back at half term again,” sighs a retired woman from Cambridge. It is a bit packed and we chat about paintings and Bonnard and the damn B***** thing.
There is a frisson of excitement when a curator asks a lady to wear her backpack in front rather than behind her because of the crowds.
“It’s not a back pack, it’s a handbag,” she tells him sharply.
“Well, wear it in front,” he counters sharply.
And in between all of that, I catch up with my other half who is drinking in every painting.
“Notice how all those just-out-of-the-bath women are buck naked but for their high heels,” I say.
“Maybe, Bonnard just couldn’t paint feet,” says he.
And out we go and on we go, to the top of Charing Cross Road and on to the Wellcome institute where we find ourselves admiring the very moccasins that Florence Nightingale – the lady with the lamp – wore.
The slippers are part of a display of medical memorabilia collected by Sir Henry Wellcome. An old birthing chair is evidence that women did not all lie down to give birth.
There is an artificial metal nose for those who lost theirs to the pox. There are various sharp metal instruments for hauling and tweezing. There are amazing little anatomical dolls. Chinese ladies who were too polite to tell the doctor what was wrong with them, merely pointed at the place on the doll where it hurt.
There is also an early cast iron scold’s bridle for shutting a woman up and an ancient metal chastity belt, for er, shutting a woman up.
“That was fascinating,” I say at the end.
“If a little dark,” adds my husband.
London is a whirl of excitement that fills the mind and empties the pockets. Two nights are enough. On Sunday evening we tumble in our front door, drunk with the beauty of it all.
“Run me a bath and fetch me my high heels,” I say.
A familiar eyebrow is hiked.
It was fun but you know... home is the best place after all.
