We went to London. Only for a couple of days. We didn't see a show or anything like that. Actually, I'm a bit off shows/the theatre at the moment. Mainly because they are thieving ratbags. We booked very expensive tickets to see "To Kill A Mockingbird" which were later cancelled for pandemic reasons. We asked for our money back but were told that the tickets would be replaced later. Two and a half years later, we were offered new tickets in May which we couldn't make (The original booking was in July) but that was a titty that was tough as far as they were concerned. They said they would have a look but didn't hold out much hope for another date as it was packed to the rafters every night. Therefore no money back (because they had offered us tickets). I'm telling you Atticus Finch - you think you are dealing with injustice - you should try taking on UK theatre land.
But we went to London. We had booked to see the Raphael exhibition at the National Gallery. This was one of those things that happen when you are both idly leafing through the Sunday papers and one of you says "That Raphael exhibition looks good." and the other one thinks "Ooh, he sounds like he knows a thing or two about Italian Renaissance painters - we'll book for that." Unfortunately, neither of us knows anything about Italian Renaissance painters or any other sort of Renaissance so this could have been a disaster - an expensive one. It was wonderful. I understood nothing and spent a lot of the hour being annoyed by posh people with loud voices going on about clarity of form or something. But, blimey, the paintings. So lovely.
This one - The Tempi Madonna - had all the women cooing about the way Mary was cradling Jesus' little baby bottom. Just so tender and real. And, if you are offended by the words baby Jesus and Bottom in the same sentence, then, for goodness sake...
The thing about the National Gallery is that it's full of really famous stuff so to get to our exhibition we were casually strolling past your Rembrandts and your Holbeins. This is one of my favourite Holbeins - it's Princess Christina of Denmark. The idea was to paint a portrait to attract the attention of Henry VIII and it was 100% successful in this. What had not been factored in however was that Princess Christina was no mug and word had reached her about his not-so-sparkling record with the opposite sex. (He was about halfway through his scorched earth approach to marriage at this point). So she said, "No thank you." Apparently, despite this unexpected rebuffal, he kept the painting for the rest of his life. This is sad, but possibly not for her.
From one thing of beauty to another. I have recently made the move from tissues to cotton handkerchiefs. I have decided that this is more environmentally friendly (I think) but really it was more about a nostalgic conversation about a primary school teacher who always had a cotton hanky in a loop on her handbag. She was as elegant as Princess Christina (not like Mrs McCandlass who caned six eight-year-olds for laughing when Christopher Cullen got his willy out under the table. She was horrible). I wondered if a handkerchief could make me more elegant. Well no as it turns out - not with these sausage fingers but I do like a cotton hanky.
Initially, I didn't want to lay too much in case the experiment was a disaster so the ones I bought have "lace" all the way around them. Well, I say lace - it feels a bit plasticky to me. I don't rub that bit too hard in case I spark nuclear fission. The dream is obviously one with embroidery in the corner, if possible of an Edwardian lady in a garden or one with my initial in chain stitch. But even now, with unsatisfactory plastic-lace cotton hankies, I am gaining much joy from tucking them up my sleeves for when the need arises and, as a special treat, I sometimes tuck one under my bra strap.
In uncertain times, I am finding joy wherever I can.
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