All posts by anne's london

On The Frieze and the Sexiest of Staircases….29/100

October 25, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

I am on rather an art binge at the moment. October is always the best month for art in London, in large part because of the Frieze week. Like London Fashion week, the Frieze, a world-famous art fair held in Regent’s Park, has a knock on effect throughout the city, so related and unofficial events pop up everywhere…..simply a matter of time and tolerance for over-stimulation. This year, my wonderful art loving friend Sara scored us some VIP (!!) passes for the Frieze, through her wealthy Texan Uncle, so we were able to flash the blue card about town and absorb as much as we possible could manage. The Frieze itself is, for me anyway, the least interesting part of the whole affair. Galleries from all over the world showcase new art and artists, much of it completely unintelligible. Some of it, may I say, utterly ridiculous. A favourite from years back was a collection of dirty traffic cones with sharpie drawn faces on them….have since fantasized often of putting my children to work and finally affording that mansion on the sea in Spain…..

But this year nothing made me laugh out loud with incredulity. Nothing particularly moved me either…except a Tracey Emin neon sign. All that vulnerable romanticism speaks to me. And a stunning Anish Kapoor Sky Mirror. Better yet, him. Another moment with the fabulous man himself. Of course he remembered us (fancy that, ha ha) and was just as charming as he was in Stratford. More kissing. More photos. How divine. The neon Emin and Kapoor, both the art and the flesh, were the stand out highlights for me. Though neither could be considered new or up and coming.

But never mind because the smaller Frieze Masters is what we had really come to see. A collection of galleries with superb, beautiful, recognizable things. Antiquities, medieval religious art, names we love and covet. A Picasso? A Matisse? Perhaps a Calder sketch? A small Henry Moore, one of Louise Bourgeois’s spiders or a Bridget Riley? An enthusiastic Yes to all. I “discovered” the hauntingly beautiful work of Austrian Alfred Kubin. I was so enthusiastic the gallery gave me a book, which I am still pouring over. Always a pleasure to learn more. Masters shows the art that if money were no object I would buy in bulk. Masters is also where they serve the champagne, on the dot of 6, on opening night. Needless to say, it was THE place to be. Terrific art. Terrific fun.

IMG_20151015_101932 — With Penny and Sara

The real joy of the VIP pass, however, is the extra art….so it was that Sara and I found ourselves 3 mornings in a row willingly experiencing the special kind of hell that is the Northern Line at rush hour. Wednesday, an early morning view of Goya:Portraits at National Gallery. A treat of artistic and historical reward. Friday was a lecture and private view of the V&A’s new, glorious Fabric of India exhibition. But Thursday was extra special, not least because it featured the sexiest of all staircases. Damien Hirst recently opened his Newport Street Gallery, on Newport Street in Vauxhall, near Lambeth Pleasure Gardens. A former Victorian scenery painting factory, Hirst began buying it in sections, using parts as his studio. Now, with the help of architects Caruso St John (who are also doing the Tate extension), he has created a visually stunning gallery in which to showcase his 3,000 piece strong personal art collection. The gallery is so new it still smells of fresh paint. And for this very first show, Hirst chose John Hoyland, an English artist deeply influenced by American Abstraction in the 1960s. Certainly colourful and his paintings from the 1960s are a delight, less so in the subsequent decades. But it didn’t really matter; John Hoyland couldn’t compete with the space itself. Large, airy rooms filled with natural light. The kind of rooms that make you immediately think “I want to have a party here,” and we were all roaming round oohing and aahing and chatting to strangers, including the wonderful Penny from New Zealand on the Grand Tour of European art fairs. We were all full of admiration for the building itself, taking photos from above and below.

Then we found the staircase. Oh, oh, oh the staircase. Suddenly all the women were in the staircase. Smiling and laughing and saying “fantastic” and understanding why the security guard in the stairwell was so unusually cheerful….because it is quite clearly, well, a woman. Nice to see we are still very much in style. Poor John Hoyland. But really, can any artist compete with a spectacularly vulvic staircase? I think not. Just wait til the champagne starts flowing there…..oh London, please, please get me invited to that party!

Twitter: @mylondonpassion

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Kissing Kapoor and other gifts…28/100

October 23, 2015 anne's london 2 Comments

My love for London is not the wise, compassionate, made sensible by experience kind of love. But the passionate, impulsive, reckless, all-encompassing love of the utterly smitten. The totally besotted. The completely infatuated. A love that convinces itself it is requited, because to believe otherwise is not possible. So when something lovely happens to me in London, and lots and lots and lots of lovely things happen to me in London, it isn’t because I am seeing magic in the ordinary, or that I am just in the right place at the right time, or that a series of actions has a logical result, rather I believe it is a thoughtful gift from my equally enamoured lover. London. A city that is so of the moment its gender is fluid. Sometimes definitely female. Other times dizzingly male. And all for me, me, me, me.

The start of the academic year always makes me feel a bit low, back to school blues. So I was delighted when a friend told me that Ai Weiwei and Anish Kapoor were going to be walking, a stroll “as they take every day,” explained Kapoor, from the Royal Academy on Piccadilly through the streets of London to Olympic Park. Certainly not a protest, as that would get Weiwei in trouble, but a small, everyday experience as an act of solidarity with refugees worldwide. And the public was welcome to join. I didn’t need to be asked twice. What a thing to be near two men for whom I have such respect and admiration, and in the case of Anish Kapoor, a serious crush. On such a beautiful, sunny day as well, following what felt like weeks of pouring rain. Obviously I didn’t think any of this was simply coincidence or even the power of social media, but yet another offering of love from London

Like many others, I first became aware of Ai Weiwei when he did the incredible Sunflower Seeds installation at the Tate Modern. Millions of handmade, hand painted ceramic sunflower seeds spilled out over the Turbine Hall. I took my children to see it many times. Sadly, the Tate decided against allowing people to walk through the seeds, citing something silly about health and safety. More likely they were afraid we would fill our pockets and leave the floor bare all too quickly. I later read that thousands of extras were made for exactly this scenario, yet we were still kept behind a rope. Nevertheless it was an extraordinary sight. And a fantastic visual for the explanation of a totalitarian regime and the people that live under such a government. Weiwei’s subsequent detention and increased political outspokenness have made him as famous an activist, if not more so, than artist. A true inspiration.

With Anish Kapoor it is much less intellectual and more tactile, visceral. From the first moment of experiencing his work I was hooked. I went to his 2009 show at the RA many, many times. All that red wax made me week at the knees. I went out of the way to visit his Sky Mirror in the City, in 2011. My husband convinced me to travel to Chicago for a weekend, 3 years ago, on the basis that I could spend time with Kapoor’s Cloud Gate. I can spot his work at impossible distances. I might even be able to sense when his work is nearby, such is my fondness for it. And while I would happily travel distances to see his art, I never once considered that I could meet him. Let alone kiss him…ooh London…

I was certainly not alone is my wish to walk with these two great men, and so a gaggle of the interested and the curious, along with an unfortunate crowd of paparazzi set off. For the first part of the walk I was joined by my up for an anything friend Lucy. She left me at Spitalfields for the circus (not kidding) and Sara my art mad friend joined. Sharing adventures with people of passion make things doubly fun. And doubly funny. The sky was blue, everyone was friendly and talkative, London glistened and twinkled in the sunshine and on and on we walked, not necessarily in a straightforward way. Through Westminster and the City. Along Brick Lane and Victoria Park and finally into the Queen Elizabeth Park, site of the 2012 Olympics, and finishing under the Kapoor Orbit, a structure in which I have done yoga and visited so many times I have an annual pass (not kidding). And it was here that I saw Anish Kapoor standing on his own and I launched myself at him. First gushing about how much I loved his work and how much of it I had seen and how I follow what he does….you know, typical overly enthusiastic fan stuff. And then, emboldened by the fact that he seemed pleased to hear all of this, I asked if I could have my picture taken with him. He agreed and the kissing began. Back and forth and back and forth and then Sara joined, why wouldn’t she, and he said “I have never been kissed so much before,” which made us all laugh and laugh and start again. One long, glorious, lovey-dovey, adrenaline rush. With photographs. Obviously.

We also had a moment with Weiwei. Being the social media king that he is, he took Sara’s phone and said simply “I take photo,” which he did. And then disappeared. A most wonderful day indeed!

Only on reflection on the Tube home did I understand what London had really given me that day. It wasn’t the chance to be near these two men or even the opportunity to have moments, albeit it a pretty fantastic several moments, with them. Instead London allowed me to meet two heroes. Always a dangerous thing. But they didn’t disappoint. Quite the opposite. Ai Weiwei was stoic and kind. Anish Kapoor divine. Simply, totally and utterly divine. No wonder his art is so sexy. I didn’t come down off my high for days. And days and days.

At times like this, even I don’t believe I get to live this life. Thank you, thank you my passionate, beautiful London.

Twitter: @mylondonpassion

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My London. Love it. Or get the F**k Out! 27/100

October 2, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

I haven’t written my blog for ages, 4 months to be exact. Daily life and loss of will overwhelmed my ability to get fingers to the keyboard, and the weeks stretched into months. I assumed, when I thought of it at all, that it was to be a project left unfinished. But I was wrong. I was simply on a break, waiting for new inspiration. And the creative among you will know that inspiration is a funny and fickle ole gal. Never can be sure what she has in store…and this time it was spite. With a very generous dollop of pride. Oh London, ours is a love affair of grand gesture. And I am ready once again to chronicle every chapter of our romance.

Recently, someone from my forgotten past told me he was coming to London and bringing his girlfriend and her offspring. They are people my mother and I call “white trash.” And their entire world view is formed of what they (obsessively) watch on reality television programs. No culture save what they imagine to be in low-end high street shops. A sad existence, perhaps, but a familiar one in parts of my country. (It is a big country; we have all sorts; don’t sneer.) I predicted that they would not enjoy London. Ha ha ha. I was so right. And more so. They HATED London. Everything about it. In fact the word used was they “raged” about London. (For those of you reading quickly, I wrote “rage” with a “g”, NOT “rave” with a “v”.)

And my heart about burst with pride. Granted, the week they were here it rained non-stop and everything that could have gone wrong logistically did. But I don’t believe that was a coincidence. Not at all.

London is the greatest city on earth. And when it wants to it can turn on the charm and dazzle in ways you didn’t think possible. It is also a strong city. It has the balls to stick two fingers up and say “get the fuck out,” to the unappreciative and unworthy. Respect. Proper respect.

So I am more determined than ever to write about my City. Not just to spite the ignorant, but London deserves to have adoration, even my feeble attempts, in print, regardless if the only person who reads my blog is my mother (who loves London, by the way.) Happy for it to be just an aide memoire of my time here, because oh oh oh what a time it is!!! I’m back. And more passionate than ever.

(just wait til I tell you what happened next…the love is mutual…at least in my besotted mind…)

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Catch me if you can….The London Marathon 26/100

May 4, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

10255322_852927958067260_2240647467833908552_o — Blue skies and Balloons in 2014

In my very first piece of writing for this blog, I declared no one does the Grand Gesture like London. I not only stand by that statement, I offer another proof. The London Marathon. As a runner, I am qualified to state that the London Marathon is the best, THE BEST race in the world. The landmarks, the crowds, the volunteers, the finish at Buckingham Palace. It is 26.2 miles of honour and glory.

904345_642308085795916_1897045877_crop — Happiest woman in the world, 2013

913979_643180475708677_570186173_o — Showing off my medal in St. Paul’s

I ran it two years ago, and loved every step. The half way mark is Tower Bridge. The magnificence of the structure alone is enough to inspire. I looked up at all the people and tossed them as many kisses as my tired body could manage. Bands played, people held up hilarious signs, most of them alcohol-related (it is England, after all) and the famous British reserve transformed into deafening enthusiasm; a tactile wall of sound at the end. I finished in exactly the time I had hoped (3 hr 59 min) and vowed to make marathon running a lifestyle choice. But as the adrenaline high waned, I realized that this had been a once in a lifetime experience. If only because I can’t ever have a more perfect run. And I want to preserve that memory, that feeling, forever. This isn’t to say I won’t run another one, somewhere else, but London 2013 is untouchable.

So now I am a spectator. A spectator wracked with longing and envy. But plenty of cheering power. And I have the perfect spot to watch. Certainly not going to divulge where, but was very happy to see that a little space was ready and waiting in exactly the right place for me again this year.

This year. 2015. 35^th Anniversary of the Marathon. Runners finishing hand in hand. And Paula Radcliffe. Elegant, amazing Paul Radcliffe. I was lucky enough to meet her at the Battersea Park Race for Life, years ago. She was stunning. And gracious. Yes, I do rather adore her. And I saw her. We all saw her. The explosion of sound when she flew by was impressive. I felt part of an important moment in history, London history anyway.

But we all cheered everyone. Especially those who seemed to be struggling. Or smiling, Or waving. Or, well, running. Because that is what it is all about. Running. In the most beautiful city on the planet.

If you can, lace up the trainers and have a go. If it really isn’t for you, then come along next year and shout your lungs out. And bask in London love and glory.

And yes, despite what I have said above, of course I am tossing my name into the ballot for 2016, today. If nothing else, those consolation training tops are mighty useful.

If you are reading this before 17:00 GMT on 8 May, 2015, and fancy a go, here is the entry site: https://www.virginmoneylondonmarathon.com/en-gb/how-to-enter/ballot-entry/

For all other information about the London Marathon, visit their website: https://www.virginmoneylondonmarathon.com/en-gb/ or follow them on Facebook and Twitter @LondonMarathon

@mylondonpassion

All the world’s a stage….The Globe 25/100

May 3, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

The Globe season has opened. The Globe season has opened. The Globe season has opened. Such has been my (silent) mantra for the last several days. As for baseball fans in the United States, Opening Day has become an occasion to be celebrated, because it promises months of superb theatre at not second-mortgage needed prices. And I love it. And so should you. Now, now, don’t shake your head and say “alright for you literature boffin types…” because I so wish that were the case. Instead, like most of my passions, it is one of atmosphere over intellect. I still gets pangs of envy when anyone casually says “oh, yeah, I did (insert Shakespeare play) for O levels.” Sadly, I did not attend a secondary school that offered Shakespeare, or literature in general for that matter. Staffed by sad, exhausted teachers wanting only to lurch to the smoking lounge (of course we had one, two actually, one for teachers, one for students. It was a classy institution) as quickly as possible, Shakespeare was something I discovered on my own. And for decades, it was only the gorgeous Franco Zeffirelli Romeo & Juliet film, which has much to offer, but limiting in terms of experience.

And then I found the Globe. Because I wanted to show off for an out of town guest, I booked tickets for As You Like It. Sat in restricted view near a post I had to occasionally look round. And I printed off the Wiki synopsis to read on the Tube….I fell madly in love with the entire experience. The beauty of the building, the humour and skill of the acting, the gorgeous words, most of which I didn’t understand, tumbling out, melodic line after melodic line, the dancing, the laughing, the roar of the crowd, the enthusiasm for a story written 400 years earlier….I was totally and completely hooked.

IMG_20150503_143241 — Joseph Marcell with my Joseph

6 years on, not much has changed. Too many plays to count later, I still sit in the restricted view (proper value for money), I still have to read a synopsis everytime, and I am still transported with each and every performance. The acting is always of high standard, and I am often delightfully surprised at casting choices. Many years ago, I recognized Hero’s father (Much Ado about Nothing). Swelling with pompous satisfaction I decided I was so “in” with the Globe I was now starting to recognize some of the “regulars”……and then the actual penny dropped. I recongized Joseph Marcell because he was Geoffrey on Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Nevermind. I have since seen him on stage twice and can only hope the residuals from the above allow him to spend much more time treading these famous boards!

But of course The Globe is more than exceptional plays. There is a museum filled with a variety of Shakepeare and his time stuff. There are concerts and readings and classes and meet the cast opportunties and fantastic outside-the-box events. I have listened to sonnets in Klingon. I have encouraged strangers to accost me on the street and act out Shakepearen scenes. I have enjoyed Othello reworked into raunchy American hip hop. I have watched young actors learn to fight in a realistic and brutal style. And I have observed, with great interest, how calmly and quickly the staff remove the fainters from the Yard. And on those rare, warm English evenings, when the sun streams through the open roof and the actors are bathed in light and the groundlings are packed together glutching beers and everyone is laughing at a joke first told in 1603…well, I must be the luckiest girl in the world.

Reveling with Shakespeare, on the streets, Sonnet Walks 24/100

April 22, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

IMG_20150419_124209 — Petruchio and Katherina (Taming of the Shrew)

“Get in the car, Kate. Get in the car now!!!!” shouts the young man, brandishing his car keys outside St. Helen’s Bishopsgate. Kate stands firm. “No.” We stop. Is this real? Are we just eavesdropping on a romantic falling out? Or…or….”O Kate, content thee, prithee be not angry…” and so a scene from Taming of the Shrew begins.

IMG_20150419_133127 — Edmund (King Lear)

An attractive, but agitated young man, dressed in a trendy black suit, approachs the group. “Do you have a light? Do you have a light? Doesn’t anyone smoke anymore? I had to come outside for a smoke. You will NOT believe what Edgar has posted on Facebook…” a nice segue into Edmund’s impassioned speech on the injustice shown him,

“Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?…”

And such is the fun and delight of the annual Globe Sonnet Walks. First held in 1994 as a way to celebrate the Bard’s birthday, they have remained thus, growing more popular every year. The concept is simple: a starting point, a handout with historical tidbits and directions, a long stemmed rose, for identification purposes, and an enthusiasm for seemingly spontaneous acting on the streets of London. At various spots along the route, scenes (of late, rather than sonnets) are acted out for your pleasure. With a modern twist that proves just how relevant Shakespeare still is today. And of course, always a sense of humour, because no one does clever quite as cleverly as the Globe.

1890441_857942687565787_6745302716866804714_o — Emilia (Othello)

The young woman swearing that female infidelity only mimics that of men, delivers this speech with an almost empty bottle of Blossom Hill rose clutched in her hand….oh honey, we’ve all been there.

IMG_20150419_131829 — Marc Antony (Julius Caesar)

A rousing sing-along of “Holding Out for a Hero” following Marc Antony’s “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend me your ears” speech causes bewildered tourists to toss the busker a few coins.

One of our group is asked to complete the impossible task of folding a festival pup tent back into its bag, while we are all reminded that “I see a man’s life is a tedious one…”

IMG_20150419_122254 — Lady Macbeth (Macbeth)

IMG_20150419_115852 — Viola (Twelfth Night)

A stiletto-heeled Lady Macbeth with burning cigarette leaves a bright red lipstick kiss on the cheek of her Macbeth of the moment. Viola is disguised as a builder working on a demolition site in Shoreditch. A gym-kitted Courtesan rages that Antipholus has gone insane. And so its goes….All the actors are superb, convincing, funny, engaging, each performance its own stand alone special treat. With the great landmarks of London as stage set.

10269190_857944134232309_2846930869172537539_o — The Groundling Gates

The walks are timed and ticketed with the choice of an East or West route. Both end up at the gates of the Globe, where many chose to entwine their rose in the beautiful wrought-iron, white and red together, like the Tudors these plays entertained. Perfect day.

http://www.shakespearesglobe.com

Passion & Obsession, Alexander McQueen at the V&A, 23/100

April 19, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

Sometimes I am an idiot. Sometimes I say things that are so stupid, the only recourse is to publically confess and wait for the hostile reaction. So here it goes: years ago, when first in London and dizzy from the choice and variation of the museums, I dismissed (dismissed!!!!) the Victoria & Albert Museum, in its entirety, with a wave of my hand and these moronic words “the V&A is like the attic of a rich, crazy old Aunt. I have no interest in the place.” No interest in the place, indeed. What a fool. The Chihuly chandelier alone….

I have since spent many an afternoon and evening strolling through the rooms of the V&A admiring things I didn’t know I coveted. Silver punch bowls. Stained glass. Groovy furniture. All that jewellry. On a recent visit I noticed that everyone who works there is extremely good looking. Maybe being surrounded by such beautiful objects has that affect on people?

And then there are the special exhibitions. If I wasn’t already regretting my ridiculous statement while oogling boots from Tsarist Russia, several years ago, I definitely knew how wrong I was when I fell under a spell of enchantment at the supurb David Bowie extravaganza, last year.

And now Alexander McQueen. Savage Beauty is not so much a show as an experience, an experience that leaves you gasping from the sheer brillance of his work and the dedication with which it is showcased. I won’t embarrass myself further by trying to say something insightful or provacative about McQueen. I simply don’t have the vocabulary. But this show overwhelmed me. With love and fear and awe. How can something so seemingly simple as a dress be beautiful and scary and an object of obsession all at the same time? Because it can. And it isn’t simple. Most things worth wanting aren’t. Instead it creates an invisible, but powerful connection that stays and stays and stays. Such is his work. His work which was his passion. Perhaps that is a great part of the attraction for me. My passion is London. And Alexander McQueen IS London. He is London’s passion. Even more now than when he was still alive. Passion and Obsession. Yes, that is it.

But it is a damn good show as well. The Cupboard of Curiosities is a curatorial triumph. A sensory overload of the most delicious kind. Everything, all the time, everywhere, and a little more too. I could have stayed there for hours and still not taken it all in.

Kate Moss as a hologram instantly made me think of Tinkerbell, as she whorls and twirls in the air. When it finished I wanted to do as JM Barrie instructed and clap my hands and shout “I believe in Fairies,” just to make sure she didn’t fade away for good. Passion and obsession indeed!

At the beginning of exhibtion I made notes of all the clothes I think would look particularly good on me. But the list became unwieldly very quickly. For the record, anything from the The Girl who Lived in A Tree (Autumn/Winter 2008) and the Irere (Spring/Summer 2003) collections would suit. And ALL of the shoes. So if any of you out there have your own attic of treasures and wish to share, let me know.

Beg, borrow, steal, tickets to this show. Or better yet, become a member of the V&A, as I am going to do, so the whole ticket problem goes away. If only to see this show. Again and again. With passion. And Obsession. And Awe.

Free Wine!!! (and a bit about Hampton Court Palace) 22/100

April 15, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

Went along to Hampton Court Palace, last night, to celebrate it’s 500th birthday, as one does, only to learn that until the end of August, Hampton Court is serving 100 GLASSES OF FREE WINE EVERY DAY, from the gorgeous wine fountain in the courtyard.

I assume most of you will now leap into cars/onto trains and rocket down the A3, but if you are still reading, or perhaps simply pacing yourself, I will try to wax eloquent about one of London’s most beautiful royal complexes.

Hampton Court was transformed from a fancy home into a palace by none other than Cardinal Wolsey, a man familiar to us all thanks to Hilary Mantel’s books/plays/television sensations, 500 years ago. Henry VIII took a fancy to it and, well, made it his own. Nice to be king. Rebuilding, renovations, refurbishment and a gift from Queen Victoria have made this palace a favourite with the public, not least because it is stunning both inside and out. And because they are serving FREE WINE, from 4:15 pm*.

My children have played in the kitchens, gotten lost in the maze and scampered throughout the gardens countless times. Alice and I once spent a day there wearing capes. Why not? I highly recommend it. Grand halls, high ceilings, tapestries, paintings, fountains, trees with space to hide, oh yes, this place has it all. The closet, tended by Henry’s closest courier, The Groom of the Stool (of yes, that is what it means) always causes lots of laughter and then fake vomiting sounds. What people were willing to do to be close to the King.

Last night, I was invited to mingle with characters throughout history (I particularly enjoyed my chat with Sir Wren, responsible for a serious revamping in late 17/early 18thc) in the Great Hall (a location the Games of Thrones set-designer must covet). Of course I drank wine from the fountain and admired a model of the Palace as a cake. But most of all, absorbed the beauty of the place on a sunny, spring evening without throngs of other amateur photographers. And came to the conclusion that every garden, no matter how small, deserves a wine fountain. Wouldn’t mind a few of the rose beds either.

And now, instead of continuing to blab on about history you probably already know, I will leave you to think of the free wine in a magnificent setting. Enjoy!

All activities are listed on the Hampton Court website. http://www.hrp.org.uk/HamptonCourtPalace

*Tokens for the wine are handed out at the information desk from 3:50, and once the 100 for the day are gone, they are gone. Plan your day accordingly.

Racing Goats 21/100

April 13, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

One of the many wonderful things about London is that one can almost always find an alternative. To anything. For example, if you wished to cheer on either Oxford or Cambridge in a competition, on Saturday, but didn’t fancy gathering with the crowds along the Thames to watch the world famous boat, there was an alternative. A funny, wacky alternative. At Spitalfields City Farm. The Oxford & Cambridge Goat Race. Yes, you heard correctly, goat race. But this is no dire country fair offering. It is East London, afterall. Hipster heaven. Punster paradise. Clever fun all round.

Spitalfields City Farm, located just off the crowded and chaotic Brick Lane, has been a community farm since 1978. With animals and gardens and wildlife of flowering and winged variety. It offers educational courses, school visits and fresh produce and for the last 7 years, been the host to the annual Goat Race. Over 1,000 lucky ticket holders swarmed the farm, eating, drinking, petting animals, admiring plants, smashing friends with goat masks over the head with soft mallets, listening to folksy singers, and parading about in fancy dress. Or not. Hard to tell in this part of London. Of course there was a bookie, “Billy Hill” no less, and he was doing a brisk business. I was served a delicious cup of tea by a Badger and her woodland companions.

And then the fun really started, all brillantly MCd by a man in a tweed jacket, horns and hooves. A poetry competition (of course there was!) with winner receiving big bottle of gin and cucumbers for goat of her choice. Goataraoke…..just like karaoke but all songs to be sung in goat; I am constantly amazed at the secret talents of strangers. A Coat Race (because it rhymes with goat): a child’s birthday party game made more interesting by the fact that several of the contestants seemed reluctant to return the shabby, vintage props at the end.

Pigs in tutus raced. They were speedy. And adorable. Cambridge won.

Finally, finally, finally the big moment arrived. Silence fell (goats don’t like being cheered). And they were off. At a mild trot. Cambridge wore his colours proudly. Oxford didn’t. Not sure if they were lost or he just refused. Maybe he knew about wind resistance. Phones and cameras snapped and clicked. Oxford won. The crowd roared its approval. And the celebrations began…

A host, of golden daffodils 20/100

April 10, 2015 anne's london Leave a comment

We have been promised “blood rain” today. I don’t even know what that means. My fantasy of heavily-laden branches of blood oranges suddenly filling my garden seems optimistic. But this is one of the pleasures of a London spring. Bizarre and often horrific weather weaving through a scattering of blissful, beautiful, clear-sky days. Days that make us whip off our winter clothes and crowd knee to shoulder on the Common, sun-deprived skin helpless to the power of the rays. When we line up chairs along busy, traffic congested roadways and drink coffee, insisting it is “just like Italy.” When we paint our toenails and don footwear so flimsy and exposing our feet blacken with the grime of the street. When cheeky ice-cream trucks park outside school gates and even the microbiotic mothers can’t resist a Flake 99 or two. And just when our bodies are relaxing into what we believe will be “the summer,” it goes. Boots, scarves, unrelenting rain and dashed hopes return. “Just a taste, never a meal,” so says my childrens’ wise orthodontist on the subject of English sunshine.

But through it all remains one constant. A constant for which I am so grateful I don’t mind the hay fever and confusing wardrobe corrections and the fact that sunlight just shows how badly I need my windows cleaned, because London spring, if only a date on the calendar, means the overnight explosion of daffodils. Everywhere.

Daffodils are my favourite flower. I love them because they are unusual looking and have such a lovely light scent and, unlike roses and tulips, only make a brief visit. I love the way they pop up here and there, as if purposely bringing random joy to otherwise empty space. I fill my house with them. I stop and admire them on the Common, in stranger’s gardens, in slightly sad little attempts at colour round traffic signals. I love that they are tall and yellow and seem to challenge the idea of acceptable flower beauty. And I love them because they remind me of working in the art gallery in St. Louis when I was in university and they bloomed everywhere. The pretentious print-expert insisted on calling them “jonquils” and I was full of hopes and dreams and ambition….all of which seem gentle now, as my life is even more than my 20 year old imagination could have hoped it to be. I am not one for nostalgia, but it is a gift to be reminded how nicely things have turned out.

I suppose I should now recite, in a loud and pompous voice, the ultimate ode to the daffodil. Alas, I only know the first line; Wordsworth is far too clever for me. But yes, there is certainly something about this flower that brings us lonely, wandering clouds a bit of joy. Even in a downpour of blood rain on dirty, city pavement.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.