Tourist in my own city

If you’ve been looking at my Flickr account you’ve probably spotted that the touristing is happening apace. I’ve been distracted at the British Museum and completely not seen what I intended to see (but not minded in the slightest); been freaked out by the Whispering Gallery in St Paul’s and had a lovely women offer to sit with me during a dizzy spell climbing the steps up to the Stone Gallery (not caused by anything like vertigo, just from going round and round and round and round in a very tight circle); wandered round the City on a Sunday when it’s quiet; been to South Ken to see the Supremes exhibition at the V&A with Helen. I’d never been to the V&A before – expecting it to be all Empire and Dull – but it’s a lovely little oasis with simply the most wonderful museum cafe. (Stained glass! Crystal chandeliers! Treacle tart with just a hint of lemon!) And the new Jewellery exhibition is Oh. My. God. If you like shiny, and you like pretty, and you like stuff that confirms the aristocracy are insane, you’ll love it. I have never seen such a collection of exquisite, perfectly restored, glittery things in my life. It’s probably what inspired me to spunk a load of money on frippery at Portobello Road yesterday.

Is it working? In a way. At least when I’m out I’m occupied and not tempted to drift and start crying. Although a violinist in the South Ken underpass playing something beautiful (Mozart?) nearly set me off. This bottoming out was completely expected – it’s why I have the time off, so I’m not working while I’m crashing and to hopefully make it less severe – but I still feel pummelled and mauled. If you’ve ever had jetlag or just not slept very well for several weeks you might know the feeling: a tiredness that comes from deep down in the soul and a desire to lie down and shut out the world, or at least hope that by the time I get up again all the crap and shoutiness and stuff I can’t deal with has gone away. Oh well. C’est la vie.


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