I had vowed not to return to these, but so much happens day-to-day in the miscellany of life that it seems a shame not to jot anything down. One change from previous format: nothing party political.
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Worth returning just for this. In a pub in Kentish Town, tried out for the first time. Really a bar shoe-horned into a former proper pub. A search for at least one hand-pulled ale. There is one. Just one, the house bitter. Bar staff member (gender reference not appropriate) approaches:
'Two pints of bitter, please', I ask.
Bar staff member does one pull, taking up one-third of glass. Bar staff member turns to colleague:
'It's run out.'
Colleague explains need to do three more pulls to get glass full.
Needless to say, one will not be going back.
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In contrast, a couple of hours spent late afternoon with a friend in a proper pub, Here, watching movements of almost balletic quality,
Chap No. 1 comes in for his pint. Pub busy. He is wearing a surgical boot. Bar staff find him a stool. He perches on it, resting his Evening Standard on the lid of the house piano. He starts to do the crossword, but in the dimmish light he has to use his phone torch in order to see the clues.
Chap No.2 comes in for his pint. Another stool has become available. He grabs it and perches at the other end of piano. He is effectively looking straight at Chap No.1, but both studiously avoid eye contact.
Meanwhile, Chap No. 3 has been sitting in the corner with his beer. He has been installed for some time. His table has room for two, but he has arranged his coat and bag to dissuade anyone from coming near.
Chap No. 3 gets up to go to the bar for a refill.
Chap No.1 swivels round to get his own refill. At the bar he engages Chap No.3 in conversation. Chap No. 3 humours him a little, but through social disfunctionality or just not being rat-arsed to talk, soon takes his drink and returns to his corner.
Chap No. 1 returns to his post. After a while, a couple at a nearby table leave. Chap No.1 sees his chance, and moving as fast as you can when wearing a surgical boot, relocates to the table.
Chap No. 2 moves up to Chap No. 1's previous post, as it offers a quicker route to any table now becoming free. Chap No. 3 stays resolutely at his table.
Slowly, the mood in the pub changes. Late afternoon singleton drinkers are being replaced by early evening couples meeting up, and small groups from nearby studio offices having a drink before going home. Like ice melting off a windscreen, within half an hour Chaps Nos. 1, 2 and 3 are gone.
My friend and I decide to move on. The pub is now approaching crowded. No one hustling for tables, but you can see the envious looks. A couple have been waiting near us, respectfully not hustling. We get up. Another couple sweep into the pub and towards our table. They are about to deliver the coup of barging in. Virtuously I point out that another couple have been waiting, and usher the latter to the table.
We leave. Curtain.
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A message from BUPA: 'It looks like you received an email with some menopause health content that isn't quite right for you'.
'...isn't quite right for you'. Meaning there might be some rightness in it, although maybe not a lot? Would that be a physiological conjecture? Or maybe a reference to the chimeric phenomenon once called the 'male menopause'?
Beyond that it is difficult to discuss the issues further without risking being stigmatised.
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Postcard from Paris
Thursday
I had forgotten the simplicity of boarding on Eurostar as against via an airport. Two trays needed in security, one for my case and the other for personal belongings. I sweep up all personal belongings from the tray, pull the case down, and proceed cheerily.
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We are seated comfortably in Standard Premier, the poor person's Business Premier. The train glides out of St Pancras, and I admire the gasholders, even though I pass through the area weekly. I check my wrist for the time on my Garmin watch...which I find now has parted company with me as I (so I thought) swept up all my belongings. Merde. I find a lost property address, and email.
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Our hotel in St Germain is 4 star. Paris is renowned for shoe-boxes below top tier, but we are first offered a child's shoe-box room, which we reject. The alternative is slightly better, but I will not say more as the experience is now the subject of a complaint to the management.
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An email back from Eurostar. Nothing handed in so far.
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Lovely just to wander the Left Bank streets. After some minor retail activity, a visit to St Sulpice. On balance I reckon I have still lost my faith, but the majesty of the church generates spiritual moments.
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Dinner at La Boissonerie. At 7.30pm we are the only diners. A bad call after a recommendation? Not at all - within the hour it is packed.
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Friday
A stroll over the bridge and through the Louvre grounds, and onwards up to the Bourse, to visit the Pinault art collection....to find that the Pinault collection is at the former Bourse de Commerce. Retracing of steps, but not much out of the way, and still very enjoyable wandering.
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Checking emails before entering. Email from Eurostar. The watch has been found. If I had been entering a church I would have muttered thanks to the appropriate deity.
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Words cannot encapsulate the beauty and splendour of the Bourse de Commerce, it dominated by a central domed atrium with levels above around the periphery. Maybe British Museum meets New York Guggenheim? Dunno. Anyway, do check it out.
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Principal exhibition is arresting work by Charles Ray. An enclosed area contains a sculptural work comprising a tableau of alabaster male figures in actual or anticipatory states of sexual relations. Trigger warning to be read before, in a manner of speaking, entering.
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In contrast, full frontal photos of young Asian women by Nobuyoshi Araki, the women displaying rampant pubic hair. Open area; no trigger warnings; children milling about.
The contrast in signage does not feel right to me. In either or both cases, art or pornography? Or pornographic art or artistic pornography? Gurus of art appreciation would no doubt be able to explain.
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Dinner at Les Antiquaires. Typical bustling brasserie. Passe Sanitaire almost universally required in public places, but in the restaurants such social distancing of tables as might have been done previously, has now been abandoned.
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Saturday
A day of wandering through the Marais, starting with breakfast. Why is a tartine so delicious? Pavement cafe culture has been here for decades. Only the pandemic has brought it in seriously in London. A question as to why not earlier. The answer might centre on relative rainfall. I must research meteorologically.
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Sights in the Marais span from the Jewish Quarter to the stately Place des Vosges. And there are people out and about, strolling: individuals; couples; families, marking an area that is as much residential as destination. It feels, well, normal...
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Dinner at Enoteca, Italian, spotted during the day and booked. Very comfortable. We get a table where we can people-watch while eating and chatting.
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Sunday
First to the Fondation Cartier. We were not quite in time for Damien Hirst, but work by Graciela Iturbide is pleasant. I think Frieda Kahlo a little, but then my art knowledge is skimpy.
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Then to the Pantheon, where some monumental works by Anslem Kiefer are displayed in monumental setting, the building constructed as a church but before use as such appropriated to become a mausoluem for distinguished French personages. The setting works well for Kiefer's works, some of which appositely mark conflict. The exhibition could not have planned with current events in mind, but is all the more impactful because of it.
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Back to the Marais for dinner at Le Grand Colbert, a 24 sur 24 establishment. We force down oysters.
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Monday
A stroll to Bon Marche, a different outlet from the one in Brixton that I remembered seeing on the train out of Victoria. Our focus is on La Grande Epicerie, Paris's answer to Fortnum & Mason. The displays are art, as far as I am concerned. Some foie gras is bought - apologies to those for whom that might be an offensive comment.
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Lunch before return en plein air at La Societe. Two women arrive. One has a lap dog. She places her (as I am advised) Louis Vuitton scarf on one chair, for the dog. At the end of the meal she parts the dog from the scarf and wraps the scarf back round her neck. I make no comment.
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A couple of days after return I walk down from Kentish Town along the canal towpath, to collect my watch from Eurostar dispatch. Liz behind the desk is delightful, and advises me that if I lose anything again then do it in the station (90% chance of recovery) against on the train (only 60%).
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At times when one item relentlessly dominates the news agenda, I find that after a while I cannot bear to continue watching or listening over every bulletin. Perhaps this is human frailty. It does not mean I do not care, and yes, I have sent some initial dosh to Unicef, and would love to do something further where this is tangible. So that is why I have spent from early Saturday morning in quiet, finishing this effort.
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The author is a writer, lecturer, historian, occasional tour guide, and former Managing Partner of a City law firm