So here it is. The 100th post. I thought this project would take 2 years. It has taken almost 3. But, as John Lennon is credited with saying, “life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” And wow is that true. For better and for worse. The world is quite a different place than it was 3 years ago. Terror, Trump, Brexit, Corbyn, North Korea, to name but a few. But no need reiterating the obvious, let’s get to 100. But how? What could possibly be the topic of the final scribbling? This is London, so the possibilities are endless…but it has to be right. A clear finish, a final wrap up. The universe, who keeps me on a short leash, got tired of listening to all this self-indulgent angst and said: “OK. You want a final post, well hold on tight. I will give you a weekend so full of experiences and thoughts and connections, there will be a cats cradle of interwoven threads when it is done.” And so it was. And here it is.
Several weeks ago the Cathedral asked if I would be the guide for some VIPs when the professional American football team, the Baltimore Ravens, came to town. Would I ever! Not because I follow celebrities, I am pretty clueless about most. And not because I know anything about American football, because I don’t. But because I love, feel it my raison d’etre, to show the Cathedral off to fellow Americans. Sure, I am delighted to show round any and all nationalities, but I especially enjoy the Americans. Because only the best of my country come to the Cathedral. The best of the best. It makes me proud. I have met amazing Americans. Of all ages, regions, ethnic backgrounds, interests and lifestyle 
choices. They are people whose existence I want to be reminded of as often as possible, particularly of late, when so much of not-our-best seems to be on permanent display. The one thing all these visitors have in common is curiosity. Intellectual curiosity. A dying virtue. So, on Friday, there I was. No surprise, the Ravens’ VIPs were terrific. Jonathan Ogden and Ray Lewis, Hall of Fame players both. I took these lovely gentlemen and their sizable entourage on a tour of the American Chapel and the Quire, which they seemed to enjoy very much. But upon leaving the Quire, Bill Viola’s video art installation Mary caught Ray Lewis’s eye….and despite the efforts of the handlers, I had to speak. It had stopped him in his tracks, after all. It is piece that I feel passionately about. The essence of human life, in 
some ways. As I gushed away about why this work is so relevant for us today, I could actually see the instant (it didn’t take long) when Mr. Lewis got it. I mean he really “got it.” That beautiful moment when you are talking about art and you see the spark in the other person. Not only was he charming, interested and curious, he got the Bill Viola. Honestly, I have the best job in the world. I floated out of the Cathedral.
And onto more art. Not ready to go home, I popped into the RA for a preview peek of the Jasper Johns retrospective. Another American. And one who is without question one of the best of the best. At the first glimpse of his Target, I almost wept. It was the perfect carry on from the morning. Concrete, or rather paper and paint and objects, proof that not all is broken in my native land. That there is still greatness. And Johns is great. One of the greatest. So much of his work is about seeing and, a rather loaded word these days, perceiving. How we perceive the world matters. Johns is a master at asking us to look at the familiar with fresh eyes. 
His art invites us to look again, “let go of habits of perception and see things in a new way.” In today’s ever polarized society, these are almost fighting words. Oh yeah…and Johns is perhaps most famous for his American flags. A symbol, once again, mired in controversy. But that is Sunday….
As if Friday hadn’t been full enough I had one more engagement. Theatre. The Ferryman by Jez Butterworth. I have a complicated relationship with Mr. Butterworth’s work, but this is a play about the cycle of violence of the IRA (though they certainly don’t have the monopoly on this most damaging of issues.) The acting was excellent, despite someone walking off stage due to illness in the 3rd act and the understudy having a broken hand. Add a real but unhappy goose, a pocketed bunny, and an unusually placid baby into the mix and I admit I did wonder if health and safety had had a chance to look round. But the message of the play was clear. This world is a disaster thanks to our own doing. Ever thus. And on to the next.
Having just turned 49 I have given myself the challenge of running 50 races or running events before turning 50. Almost immediately I realised this was a challenge of dedication and logistics rather than athleticism. Or so I thought. The first 5 races were rather fabulous. The 6th, Sunday morning, 10k in Hyde Park. The weather was glorious. One of those perfect, warm London autumn days. The location could not have been more beautiful. Hyde Park, in the sunshine. And the race, sponsored by a Crohn’s Disease charity, was well organised. But my legs weren’t in it. They were tired and tight and every step hurt. Every very slow step. It is true that there is no run you regret. But there are runs that disappoint. This was one. Alas. Life often disappoints.
But a slow run is really not something to fuss about. I went home via Marble Arch, for a little trip down memory lane. Because it was here, just off Marble Arch that I lived for 3 months in the Winter of 1989 while attending LSE. Art and theatre, theatre and art is 
how I spent most of my time. What had always been an ember burst into flame over those months. I was hooked. No wonder many, many years later, for reasons that have nothing to do with me at all except for exceptionally good taste in a husband, I was back. Art, theatre and everything that London has to offer. While revelling in nostalgia I noticed the new sculpture, Celebration of Life, by Bushra Fakhoury. Dancing with naked, masked abandon. Yup, that is it. But I couldn’t linger for long as I had promised to take the kids to the Colourscape on Clapham Common.
Colourscape, an annual music festival “of unusual instruments and sound,” since 1989, the same year I first lived in London. The wait was so long I sent my children to find conkers. Conkers aren’t just so English, they aren’t just beautiful symbols of Autumn, they keep moths at bay. I need them. Stephen and Katherine returned with two bulging 
sacks. Very pleased. But while alone in the slow moving queue, social media started to implode. Ray Lewis had dropped to his knees during the American national anthem at Wembley Stadium. And people on both sides of the issue went wild. Insane. Out of their minds. With hate. So much hate. He seemed to have suddenly become the most reviled person in the world. No small feat these days. Everybody, from all sides, was baying for blood. Yikes. And the language being used, again, from all sides of the argument was unacceptable. Utterly unacceptable. Ugly, ugly ugly stuff. I was mulling over how much I would not like to be famous when we finally made it to the top of the queue. And those thoughts were put on hold. We stepped into Colourscape and time evaporated. We were literally cocooned in colour and sound. Strolling musicians at every rounded turn. So peaceful and beautiful. Yet the shifting colours made me feel unsteady. The experience, as lovely as it was, was unsettling, disorienting. Such is life, isn’t it. Unsteady even at the best of times. When I got home I switched on the television to watch the opening ceremony of the Invictus 
Games, the Olympic-style games for wounded service people, an event close to my heart. (see post #96.) The overriding message, or series of messages, of the long weekend fell into place. No one, Prince Harry reminded the audience, would have wished to be eligible for these games. Yet here they are. The keynote speaker before him, a man who had been attacked with an axe by the Taliban, said that no one thinks it is going to be them, until it is. And the competitors all spoke, after they crossed the finish line, of having made a choice, a choice, sometimes against all odds, to keep going. To keep going when life if horrifically, cruelly or even just irritatingly, interrupted. Real life happens as you’re busy making other plans.
My gorgeous, fabulous, wonderful sister in law, who I have known since we were teenagers, has breast cancer. The devastating recent hurricanes and floods and earthquakes. The seemingly unbreakable cycles of violence. The idolization of symbols and causes and slogans over the simple act of caring for one another. The hate. It is enough to set the Black Dog howling. And here I come with my tiny little banner of hope. Call me naive or even stupid, though I prefer the epitaph that a lovely elderly Indian visitor to the Cathedral gave me, “most excellently cheerful.” Perhaps that is why I was brought back to London. Because in this greatest of all cities I will never ever be lacking in things to inspire, to be curious about, to fill me with crazy, passionate joy. Not just the big stuff, and lucky me, I have plenty of big stuff, but the little moments too. Sharing a great piece of art with someone who gets it. Running, slowly, past a Henry Moore sculpture. An uncrowded art gallery. Conkers. A bassoon player appearing round a colourful corner. Theatre with friends and yeah, being followed round by photographers at St Paul’s cathedral is pretty great too. I love them all.
So, having reached 100, writing about my adventures has come to an end. What have I learned? I am very American, in all the best ways. I love London, really, really love London. I am the luckiest person alive. And having adventures, every day that I can, with enthusiasm and joy and passion, that is what I do. My London Passion. Thanks for sharing it with me.
@mylondonpassion
Birthdays are a funny thing. They are supposed to be meaningful, monumental even. But I’ve always found them to be rather like New Year’s Eve, overhyped and ultimately disappointing. And as we get older, depressing. A few days ago I turned 49. “Oh, its the beginning of the end,” people told me. “The big 50 next year…it’s all downhill from here.” and other such ridiculous nonsense. “But why?” has been my consistent answer. Why should it be depressing and downhill and the end? I am so looking forward to turning 50. I have long thought that my 5th decade is going to be my best yet. 50 and fabulous. 50 and fighting fit. 50 and fearless. And technically this is my 50th year, so why not start celebrating now. I don’t generally do much birthday celebrating. Instead I use it as an excuse to do more Londony things, as if I ever need an excuse for Londony things. Last year I stretched it out and did a full week of Londony things with different people, 
including breakfast in the Sky Garden with Sara, sculpture walk with Milly and drinks in the London Eye with my husband, Craig. But this year I wanted something a bit more. Not expensive, fancy more. Not exclusive London more. Not once in a lifetime more…just me more. As in how I see the future. And would remember forever. A tall order, perhaps, but my passions are widespread and I know clever people. One of the cleverest is Vanessa, the woman behind the amazing Secret London Runs running tours. “I might like to run on my birthday,” I said to her back in June. Almost without hesitation came the response, “why don’t I write a Famous Annes of London tour.” Why not indeed.
colourful and interesting Annes. Naughty, powerful, rich, talented and sainted. We saw where Anne Bronte met her publisher, who was of course expecting a man, not a provincial young lady. We admired a statue of Shakespeare and agreed that being left his second best bed in the will didn’t mean he didn’t care for his wife, Anne Hathaway…she got the money too. Poor Anne Askew was racked so badly for her religious beliefs she had to be carried in a chair to the stake, to be burned alive for heresy. Anne Redshawe ran The House of Intrigue in the 18th century, a lesbian brothel frequented by ladies of the upper classes. Anne Morrow Lin
dbergh, Queen Anne, and her mother Anne Hyde all have great stories. St. Anne, Jesus’s granny, got two stops. The second included 
an extraordinary mural. Art! Plus a few more Annes (I can’t give all the secrets away!).
As I started to look at the options, and there are so many running options in London, I quickly realized that the challenge isn’t really going to be the running so much as one of logistics. Stephen, 3rd child, age 13, has so many rugby matches this Autumn I need to figure out how to be in two places at once. But I am a mother, I can do it! In fact, as I type I already have 3 runs under my belt. Two days before the Anne run, I went on the Street Art run with Secret London Runs (same week counts,
I need all the events I can get!). Not only was it great to run through East London and find some incredible street art, we were filmed by a young, local woman who couldn’t believe we were doing such a crazy thing. Running! To see art! Later, one of the men in my group stopped to help a collapsed homeless man, “I am a first aider,” he explained. With impressive efficiency he established the man was breathing but unconscious and helped arrange for an ambulance, and then we carried on. London life.
Yesterday morning I ran the Clapham Common 10k with Run Through UK. No watch, no earphones, nothing but London sunshine. And the peace of mind to enjoy it. A terrific medal too. It was then that I realized this isn
‘t really a challenge at all. It is a privilege. More than a privilege, a gift. I have the health, the time and perhaps most importantly, the freedom in which to make this happen. Suddenly a silly, self-indulgent idea becomes a feminist statement. Maya Angelou rings in my ears. “I am a woman PHENOMENALLY.” Now I do love that. Passionate about that. My London Passion. xxx
I love public sculpture. The quality of a city can be judged by its sculpture, I believe. I was once lured to Chicago on the promise of Anish Kapoor’s Cloud. London, the best city in the world, is filled with sculpture. Some of it awful, but much of it fantastic. And for the last 7 years, the City of London has filled its streets with work by famous, ultra-famous artists, in 9 month rotations. Sculpture in the City, as the programme is called, apparently came about as a gentlemen’s bet by the head of Hiscox, the art insurers, at a industry dinner. Could he get artists to donate work to the City? No way, was the reaction. Watch me, was the response. And the rest, as they say, is history. Not only do artists and galleries willingly donate the work, the selection committee gets more than a hundred offers every year. And why not? The chance to have your work showcased in the busiest part (Monday-Friday anyway) of the greatest city, to be admired by millions of sympathetic eyes…..an artists dream. Mine too. I love this programme. I look forward to the unveiling of the new selection each summer. Last year, I was fortunate enough to take a tour with one of the selection committee members. What a fascinating insight into the work, chosen at times for its potential reaction to the buildings around it as much for
the work itself. The City is an incredible mix of the old and the new. Beautiful post great fire (1666) buildings up against brand new shiny towers with unfortunate post WWII construction in between. Stone and glass and cement, all under London’s changeable sky. Add some contemporary sculpture and this is for what Instagram was made.
Another of my favourite things is the morning after the night before in a city. Early morning, streets empty of people but with the debris of nighttime fun still in evidence. An eerie calm with traces of raucous frivolity. The perfect atmosphere in which to admire art. With a rather vague map from the City of London downloaded on my phone I set off, with only the ubiquitous packs of builders as company. I found all 18 pieces, and dare I say, the overall affect was a little disappointing. Two of the works were part of last year’s group, Gavin Turk’s Ajar and Recycle Group’s Falling into Virtual Reality. I adore the Turk piece, photographed my children in it on our New Year’s Eve day outing, would be happy for it to live in the churchyard of St. Botolph’s without Bishopgate forever. Not sure, however, that is 
can be presented as part of a new series. Some of the others I just didn’t like as much as what had come before. For me, Paul McCarthy’s Apple Tree Girl Apple Tree Boy just wasn’t as engaging as Giuseppe Penone’s Idee di Pietra of last year, and with the Gherkin as the backdrop, you do want something rather fabulous. But fabulous is what Nathaniel Rackowe’s Expanded Black Shed looks like against the iconic building.
Sarah Lucas’s Florian/Kevin phallic vegetables, last year, were such a pleasure on the eye and funny as well, but to everything a season and the current season offers its own brand of humour. Not sure I was all that taken with Mhairi Vair’s Support for a Cloud, until I read that TimeOut (which did like them) suggested the Lloyd’s building had contracted a fungal infection or grown testes, depending on ones angle. This made me laugh out loud. Artist as interpreter of public opinion, surely. Similar wink and nod to Damien Hirst’s Temple, a giant medical model torso of a man. The worship of self has gotten more than one city boy in serious trouble over the decades.
Sanchez’s party rings in the same tree (and Leadenhall Market), but then they weren’t meant to be. Creed may be making a big statement with his glorified rubbish, Sanchez was 
just having a bit of fun. But perhaps I am being too harsh. And a walk through the city is always worth doing, regardless of what you find. It was in this spirit that once finished with the sculpture trail I walked back on myself, to Broadgate. Because it is there that one of my most loved pieces of public art stands, permanently. Richard Serra’s rusty wedges with a gorgeous view of the sky from inside. 
Its official title is Fulcrum, but to me it is House of Cards, these big pieces of metal not quite leaning on each other, precariously defying gravity, unstable. The perfect symbol for the financial capital of the world, upsetting as that truth may be. Now that is great public sculpture. 
A trait I have inherited from my father is the ability, no, the compulsion to talk to strangers. I know my children hate it, my friends cringe, but I can’t help myself. Nor do I have any desire to curb this habit as it almost always turns out well, sometimes very well indeed. At the recent Chelsea Flower Show I began chatting with one of the Chelsea Pensioners, resplendent in his iconic red coat. I invited him to St. Paul’s. He came the following Tuesday. He invited me to lunch at the Royal Chelsea Hospital, the world famous home of the Pensioners. Friends welcome. And this is how Ange, Lizzie and I got to spend Monday, a gorgeous, sunny, beautiful, London summer day, at the Royal Hospital Chelsea. What a treat!
Charles II, motivated, as much by admiration and envy of the French system, as desire to do the right thing, in 1681, issued a Royal Warrant to build the Royal Hospital “for the succor and relief of Veterans broken by Age and War,” and more than 300 years on it is still going strong. It is a place of wonder and beauty and its Pensioners are the toast of the town, wherever they go. “Hospital” in its original form means hospitality more than a place of medical care, and while there is a medical wing in the current complex, is was place in which to live out life with dignity, including a bed and meals, something many 17th century soldiers would have found to be the height of luxury. Expectations have changed and so has the
Hospital, so that the sense of luxury remains in tune with todays standards. So much so that my friend Ange and I are plotting how we too can get ourselves a spot. We need to wait ’til we are 65, bump off the husbands and join the army. Ok, the first two are doable, the third a bit trickier but we are resourceful women. Because this place is gorgeous! GORGEOUS.
Yes, there are women in the hospital, since 2009. Today there are 15. But they don’t get on with each other, we were told. We assumed this was just male hyberbole until Ange started chatting with the female pensioner in the gift shop. “We had a lovely tour of the Chapel from one of the other women, Xxxx.” “PHeffff” was the immediate response. “I don’t like her. No one likes her.” Ange was stunned into silence. Ok then. No group singing of “We are family, I’ve got all my sisters with me,” for this lot. But the men seem to get on. One of the gentlemen we met had recently been hugged, on television, by Jo Konta, at Wimbledon. The press were now after him. Are you “that man,” we joked (having been prompted by Peter). Yes he acknowledged, with a smile, he was. But no autographs today. We all laughed. We laughed often on Monday. Peter told fantastic and funny stories of his life and his time in Chelsea. But there is a solemn side to it all as well. These are men and women who have seen conflict, of the most brutal kind. And many of their friends paid the highest price. Standing in the North Front is a larger than life statue of a Pensioner, arm raised, as if hailing a cab (it is Chelsea, after all). Around the base are the words Sir Jacob Astley spoke before the Battle of Edgehill in 1642, known as the Soldier’s Prayer: “O Lord you know how occupied I shall be this day. If I forget thee do not forget me.” Words that pierce the soul.
But this is not a sad place, not at all. There is not any sense of what most of us generally feel when in an institution for older people: Despair. Chelsea Hospital tackles head on the great scourge of our modern times, especially for those in advancing years: loneliness. To be lonely here would take an effort. In a world that is becoming increasingly fractured and alienating, Royal Hospital Chelsea retains a tangible sense of community. A belonging. We should all be so lucky. There is a lot we could learn from this place. It was an honour and privilege to be invited in. A perfect London day indeed. 
One of the many controversies surrounding the Olympic Games is the concept of “legacy.” Each city makes big promises. None deliver. None except London. London has done a fantastic job with the Olympic legacy. Sure, I have no doubt lots of people have lots of gripes, but overall it is something of which to be proud. Olympic Stadium now the home of West Ham. The aquatics complex in constant use by the public. Beautiful and popular Olympic Park. But the best legacy of all is the London attitude to disabled athletes. There isn’t a city in the world that can claim what we have. Popularity.
Think back to that dreamy summer of 2012. The Paralympics weren’t just attended, they weren’t just well attended, they were sold out. SOLD OUT. I saw more sports that I can even remember, and the venues were packed. Crowds cheering, flags waving, heroes made, breakfast television couches filled, more victims for the paparazzi. Of course, this could all have been just leftover euphoria from the incredibly successful Olympic games. Except that it lasted. It still exists.
we weren’t the only ones. Once again, the venues were crowded with loud, enthusiastic members of the public. Like the 2012 Olympics, the 2014 Invictus Games were a magical few days, finishing off with a concert in Olympic Park which may have been one of the best I have ever been to, not least because the line-up included my beloved Frank Turner and the
incomparable Foo Fighters. It is impossible not to feel overwhelmed with awe when the lyrics “learning to walk again” are being shouted by women and men with prosthetic legs who, on a bad day, can run far faster than I can on my best day. Inspiring indeed.
The highlight was the 200m…starring gold medal paralympian Richard Whitehead and Invictus superstar and bronze medal paralympian Dave Henson. They finished 1st and 3rd. The stadium roared. It roared again when Hollie Arnold broke the world record in the javelin. It roared when the Kenyans ran too. Actually the noise was consistently high throughout. Lots of Americans competed and won as well. When interviewed they all said the same thing, that London was the “best, the BEST” place to compete. London’s legacy. Doesn’t get much better than that.
Some days just don’t turn out the way they were planned. Saturday was one of those. I was going to collect my older son, Joseph, at Heathrow early in the morning, back from 3 weeks of surfing and climbing in California. After some suitable home comfort spoiling, I would leave him to sleep, no doubt he would be in desperate need, and I would still have plenty of time to get to the roof garden of One New Change, the shiny, retail complex across from St Paul’s, and watch Venus Williams, a player I have adored for close to two decades, win her 6th Wimbledon title. Well that was the plan, anyway. Things took at turn at 4 am. Joseph called to say his flight had been cancelled and as he is underage the airline (yes, that same one that has gotten such bad press recently) weren’t at all interested in finding him somewhere to stay until a new flight could be found. They weren’t too concerned about finding him a new flight either, actually asked him to leave the queue as “the line is too long to help 
you.” Nice. We found him a hotel room and a few stand by options. “Don’t worry,” he told us. “I will be fine here in San Francisco. I don’t mind staying a few more days.” Yeah, I have no doubt about that. Very exciting end to what had been a very happy adventure.
“No” came the immediate response. “He won’t survive the hour. Go get him.” Suddenly feeling the weight of my responsibility, I dashed back out the front door with a shoebox in hand. A delivery van came to a screeching halt. The driver jumped out. “Are you looking for the bird? He went that way.” And the chase began. Clamoring over fences and rubbish bins. The lovely driver finally caught him up in his hi-viz jacket. And into the box the bird went. I took him back inside. The poor little thing kept opening his beak for me. “Please try to feed him,” London Wildlife told me. “Go down to Tesco and get some wet cat food and put little morsels into his beak.” This was beginning to get farce-like. But of course I obeyed, I was in too deep now. I was pretty bad at it. Not sure how much of that disgusting paste actually made it into his mouth. But I tried at least. “We aren’t going to be able to get to you anytime soon,” was the next message. “Could you get him to us?” This is London. Of course I can get him to you. “Can I put him in a cab?” I asked. Of course I could. This is a London bird, after all. Cabs are a way of life. Taxi called, driver slightly nervous, but willing. And off he went. “Thank you,” was the text I received 35 minutes later. ” Thank you for rescuing this baby blackbird. He arrived in a fine and lively state.” So that was job done. And 3 hours gone. The tennis!
I rushed off to One New Change. Venus had to win now. I had saved a bird!!! Me! Yes, so unlikely. But I had done it. Now to the tennis! At One New Change. This marvel of glass and steel, designed by French architect, Jean Nouvel opened in 2010. It was constructed as an homage to Christopher Wren, the genius behind St Paul’s Cathedral, my favourite place on earth. One New Change affords a perfect view of the Cathedral from many angles, but because it is a structure more of space and light than form, it doesn’t loom, it shimmers, almost blending into the sky. It is sometimes referred to as the “stealth bomber,” you can’t see it, but from it you can see everything.
points. And then she didn’t. The set slipped away. Then the match evaporated. She lost the second and final set 6-0. Yikes. Certainly not how I had envisioned it. Not how she had either, I am quite sure. But there it was. A rescued bird in a taxi, tennis overlooking St Paul’s, and a son extending his holiday in another great city. Unlikely, but true. Such is life, especially life in London. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The weather in London has been glorious, beautiful for weeks now. What better way to enjoy it than a spot of jousting at Hampton Court Palace. As one does.
properly, become infected and torture him for the rest of his days. It is a dangerous sport, still so today. I had a nice chat with one of the competitors at the end. Last year, at this same event, he “was so broken,” (his words) that he was out of action of the rest of the year. Dangerous, but great fun to watch.
could marry Anne Boleyn. Anne was there today as well. In fact, a whole host of worthies filled the Royal Box. Wimbledon has their Royal Box, and a few favourites filled the one at Hampton Court for the tournament, including Thomas Cromwell, my great historical crush. He is a very good looking man indeed. And speaking of tennis, when the jousting was over (and I may or may not have been lurking about in a stalkerish manner) I overheard Henry invite Thomas to play some tennis, a game Henry frequently 
played on the grass courts he had built, (still in use today, refurbished, obviously) at the Palace. He also installed two bowling alleys. His jousting days were behind him by the time he occupied Hampton Court, but his competitive nature was not. Sport, in a gentler fashion, was still necessary. But I digress. Jousting.
The jousting took the form of 2 runs between each competitor, for a total of 6 runs. Except Francis Weston insisted he get an extra go at George Boleyn and the Knight Marshal let him have it, twice actually. So it ended up two versus two, four times each. Misses, hits, points scored, lances shattered. That is a modern thing, the shattering. Back in the day, lances were solid. Spectators were familiar enough to see what touched where, at top speed, but no longer. We need things to blow up. So the lances are hollow and breakable and what a satisfying smacking sound they make when they clash. 
The finalists on the day were George Boleyn and Henry Radcliffe. They had two passes. The first was a stunning lance to lance touch, a thing of rare beauty, so the commentator told us. 5 points each. But the next pass was a total miss. From one extreme to the other. Such is the nature of sport.
started up. We wandered over to a tent to find our merry Royals dancing. We stayed and watched. Thomas Cromwell may have smiled at me. Oh Thomas, 500 years is but a moment in time when in your presence. And jousting is a perfectly reasonable way to spend an sunny July afternoon in 2017.
I knew I would have fun tonight. What I didn’t expect was to meet my best friend Ange in her male Jamaican version. And by that I mean that instant Vulcan mind meld. Just saying the name “Idris” leads to a spirited discussion of The Wire, complete with quotes, straight on to Cage aux Folles, (try and keep up please), a few asides about Christine Baranski and Cush Jumbo and then back to mothers and children (didn’t I mention that before) , all under the sighing, patient gazes of a daughter and a long time girlfriend. I only hope everyone else at the table had has much fun as we did. But that is the beauty of the Literary Hour. No one is going to willingly attend a dinner party of strangers in a very out of the way terraced house in north London unless they have some joie de vive in them. And tonight there was plenty. In fact, to suggest that my new friend, Mick, and I had a monopoly on the merriment is mean spirited. There was laughter from up and down the sizable table. We came to have a good time, and we did. Everyone.
I know, I have written about The Literary Hour before, in my post about dining in Naria. But this is my blog and I can repeat myself if I please. I wrote about the Northern Line twice. The Northern Line!! Twice!!! Surely I can talk about the best supper club around more than once. So, who is this Literary Hour? A group of friends who decided to cook and read to each other. And when they realized that that was rather fabulous, invited the public to join. I had forgotten how gorgeous it is to be read to. Not listening to an audio book, but to be read to. By an actual person in the same room, from an actual book being held in hands. No wonder wise people are always going on about reading to children, it is, it really, really is something special. Hearing those words delivered personally, just to you. I think I would show up pretty much anywhere if someone agreed to read to me. And to be given a delicious meal on top….well, how much luxury can a girl expect.
offerings. I have never read Doyle. Either has my daughter Lizzie, who shared the evening with me. I know next to nothing about the character other than his cocaine addiction. Happily it didn’t matter. The passages read were in reference to the courses served. So it wasn’t plot that mattered but words. Oh how I love words. How I love gorgeous, full-bodied, fantastic words. Tonight, in one of the passages, a man was described as “confectious.” Oooh, my brain began instantly to sizzle with the knowledge that I too know several men I could call “confectious”. It isn’t a compliment, by the way.
But what about the food, I hear you all saying. It is a dinner club, after all. Well the food was tremendous. Delicious. Fantastic. Starting with oysters and a Bloody Mary shot (a wedding breakfast), kedgeree, a wonderful sampler of pates, quail stuffed with dates and then…..oh I do love a good sense of humour, a plastic syringe of froth with poppy seeds….”heroin?” one of the guests shouted out. Not quite, but a tasty little joke, nonetheless, though it did take us all a bit of time to willingly shoot it into our mouths. Yeah, yeah…all the comments were made. Move on. There was also a mystery to solve. The murder of Irene Adler. The clues were clever but the culprit was obvious. Just the way I like it!
The other day was the 20th anniversary of the publication of the first Harry Potter book. No, this fact doesn’t make me feel old. Instead, I am grateful that I have had 20 years of a life with Harry. Because I love these books. I am true believer, have been since the start. And so are my children who have grown up with the books, the audio, narrated by the stupendous Stephen Fry, and eventually the films. We really, really love the films. Our New Year’s Eve tradition is to watch them, one after the other. We have been to the Harry Potter-Warner
Bros. studios, just north of London many, many times. It is a fantastic, magical place. The last time we were there we saw a marriage proposal…..on the Hogwart’s Express. Of course we have been photographed pushing a cart into Platform 9-3/4 at King’s Cross. I can point out the entrance to Diagon Alley in Leadenhall Market and that opening scene in Half Blood Prince with the Death Eaters Flying over and through Millennium Bridge makes me swell with pride, as I feel rather possessive of what I think is one of London’s mot beautiful locations. And then there is the St. Paul’s connection.
The Dean’s Staircase, also knowns as the Geometric Staircase, was built, in the south tower, on Wren’s request, by William Kempster between 1704/05. It connects the floor of the Cathedral to the Triforium, an attic like space between the inner wall of the nave and the outer screen wall of the cathedral, which among other things, contains the library. It is 88 steps of sheer marvelousness; the stairs seem to float. When I stand on the landing at the top I feel like nothing is actually supporting me, a sensation I distinctly dislike and I am too afraid to get close to the edge. So my photos of it from above are always rubbish. But it is beautiful. Incredibly, dazzlingly beautiful. Wren was so pleased with the final result he gave Kempster of bonus of 20 guineas. Google wouldn’t give me an exchange rate from 1705, so I am going to guess the spending power was about 200 pounds. Not a bad tip.
for Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem and Ron is heading down, wand out, ready to fight. They stop on the stairs and exchange a few words.
But all of St. Paul’s is stunning. My passion for the place is only matched by my passion for sharing it with others. So it was an honour and a privilege when the Cathedral recently asked me to yap away about the American Memorial Chapel and Billy Fiske for PBS, the American television station, for their series on English cathedrals. I was thrilled. Beyond thrilled. And I loved every second of it. Of course, I may end up on the editing floor, but I hope at least my gloved
hand pointing out Glenn Miller’s name (the musician and band leader) in the Roll of Honour in the Chapel will make it to air. Why is he there? Because he is one of the 28,000 Americans who died in World War II having spent time in Britain. Miller was on his way from the UK to France when his plane disappeared over the English Channel on 15 December, 1944. And what about the other man I mentioned? Billy Fiske. The first American to fight and die in WWII. A short life, but an incredible one, but I say no more. You 
will have to wait for the PBS show, due next summer. Better yet, come visit me at St. Paul’s. I will show you Fiske’s pilot wings and tell you all about him. I will show you Prof. Trelawney’s stairs too. And so much more. I will wear sparkly shoes. You will be enchanted.
I’ve got (another) confession to make……no, no don’t worry, I am not about to burst into song, much as I love Dave Grohl. But it is a serious confession. I have never been to the Serpentine Pavilion before. Pause. I hear the gasps of shock, of incredulity. Yes, I know it seems so “my kind of thing,” but there it is. Never made it before. In my own small defense, this time of year, when the new Pavilion is unveiled, is the busiest, and I mean really, really, really busy, time of year for any SW London mother of school age children. Christmastime is dull in comparison. End of term, end of school, new school, summer birthdays, celebrations, showcases of talent, just one last party, just one more last party….oh and the summer fetes, maybe a street party or two, toss in some badly timed visitors….it is a nonstop carousel of child-based, though sometimes only tangentially, activities. It is enough to make even the hardiest of us weep with exhaustion.. I am forever murmuring Velvet Underground “I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years….”. But this year I showed up, mainly because I got invited to the preview, and I love exclusivity. So off, on a gorgeous, balmy, London summer evening, I went.
rest or chat or just hang out. And that is exactly what he has built. Made of wood, obviously, it’s a tree, with blue, triangular panels, patterned to the touch, like a bark. A roof that stretches out like leaf laden, shade giving branches. Inside is a warm, cozy atmosphere, rather like a sophisticated fort made in the woods. But with benches and a bar. And a great little wooden slide. In the center is what can be a waterfall, when it rains. But rain isn’t something we have had in quite a while here in blazing hot London, so the well was definitely dry on opening night.
Art previews are always a fabulous people watching opportunity, the outfits, the ages, the sheer exuberance of life, all the more so when the architect himself is present. “Oh, I would like to meet him,” I told some in-the-know gentlemen. “But of course,” and that is how I came to have a little cuddle and a picture. He was completely charming, and when the Artistic Director of the Serpentine tried to drag him away to meet more worthy patrons, he said “not yet, I am having my picture taken.” So Mr. Hans-Ulrich Obrist and another guest had no choice but to hop into our photo as well.
mylondonpassion 