Mixed up confusion

Sweet Thames Run Softly

It started well.  The day dawned fine, and Grosvenor Square was tranquil, though the strangely wrapped figure of Dwight David Eisenhower outside the Qatari remake of the US Embassy seemed an ominous portent:

Anyway, in one of the Halcyon Galleries on Bond Street I get a glimpse of early Hockney, where the women come and go:

And across the way Bob Dylan exposes his inner Marlborough Man with a little less finesse than Bradford Davey:

And then I work my way through the streets of Soho, past traces of earlier communications, now repositories of today's excess:

I note that Pink seems to be the in colour today, whether on your rickshaw:

Or with a casual glass of wine while trading al fresco:

Or as part of your biker gear:

Or if you are Queen for the day:

Then, where Kipling once lodged, I pass one of my favourite haunts, though now it's hard to get a seat:

With my special dragon bike I take a pedal up the river to Richmond and beyond, where the sun is out:

And a heron fishes, the cycle of life:

And where, in the 18th century, George II lodged Henrietta Howard, his mistress, in Palladian splendour, another cycle of life.

It is hot now, but the Sweet Thames runs softly, 

So I took her sailing on the river (Flow sweet river, flow),

From Putney Bridge to Nine Elms Reach
We cheek to cheek were dancing
Her necklace made of London Bridge
Her beauty was enhancing

Ewan MacColl

But this is where things start to go wrong.  The heat. The after effects of gothic strawberries, the press and confusion of London Town; even if it is French:

We dine upstairs, the food, the drink, the company, the wine, the digestifs.....

It may be my daughter's birthday, but the confusion is beginning to set in, my pulse beat racing, 

Well, there’s too many people

And they’re all too hard to please

Well, my head’s full of questions

My temperature’s rising fast

Well, I’m looking for some answers

But I don’t know who to ask

Bob Dylan

Mixed-Up Confusion

And so it goes......

But then, despite the gentle musings of Ewan MacColl, and the ebb and flow of Old Father Thames (without which, London would not be) I sink into oblivion, exhausted by the heat and confusion of the city. I long to be back in the calm of Norfolk, even though this yearning is a two-edged blade. I trip from MacColl to Edmund Spenser, and look to Prothalamion for solace, those sixteenth century lines like a cool gauze across my brow:

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air 

Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 

A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 

Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;

And at dawn it is quiet now.  Oxford Street so near a desert:

Tottenham Court Road a pedestrian dream:

And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 

Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 

The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend 

The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, 

Did on those two attend, 

And their best service lend, 

Against their wedding day, which was not long: 

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

Edmund Spenser

Prothalamion

And, waking, as if from a confused state, I walk through Gordon Square, and hear a voice:

Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted.

Rabindranath Tagore

But I’m walking and wondering

And my poor feet don’t ever stop

Seeing my reflection

I’m hung over, hung down, hung up!

Bob Dylan

Mixed-Up Confusion

*****

The nymphs are departed.

T S Eliot

The Waste Land

*****

To unwind, please see Christy Moore, with 

Sinéad O'Connor and Neill MacColl, singing Ewan MacColl's Sweet Thames Flow Softly....

https://youtu.be/Tgwtl-s0CNI

Where has all the power gone? Part 2

 And life only.....

Sunday

To take up where I left off....  After the Power Station and views across the mighty metropolis, I wandered a while, wondering why an Iranian car might need to be on the pavement.....

But it's none of my business....

It isn't my business.

I am only a passer-by.  A passer-through.  I should not be questioning the rights (the wrongs?) of others.  Like when a cyclist approaches me on a footpath and says, Hi.  Good morning! and I want to say, Fuck off, this is a footpath, not a bridle path, I know that if I do, then I will be the recipient of abuse.....

So I don't question an Iranian vehicle on the pavement.....

I was in the National Portrait Gallery, recently reopened after a touch of varnish. I see parliamentarians on the wall while weary visitors take little notice:

And Katherine Parr twinkles down at me from 478 years ago.  The wrinkles of power so flat in two dimensions:

Sunday morning, I return to the 'village' of Harpenden for a memorial gathering to remember my friend Irene.  I stop for a while with Colin, whose late wife was so dear,  then we walk round the corner to socialise with those who still stand.  It is great, but sad, and tinged with my own memories of how we all used to gather in each other's houses, when Amanda was well.....

Colin used to be in the Navy as codes man and so we discuss the use of Enigma machines and the way that his code books used to have lead bound into them so they would sink should circumstances demand they had to be jettisoned....  And he has some Bristol Cream.....  So, so normal....

Then back to Kentish Town for a BBQ with daughter Hannah and friend Michael.  

Under the supervision of Denmark (the Prince of):

I am an atom in the whirling life of London. There is everything going on and most of it is way beyond my comprehension.  

Piccadilly Circus is alive, citizens of the world abound:

Someone sings:

Someone dances:

In Leicester Square someone juggles blades:

Nearby a sincere young man sings:

Though not everyone cares very much:

And there are those who want to keep moving:

And those who don't:

In the French House young women are relaxed:

And outside young men dance (after a fashion):

Opposite the Ritz I spot a yellow car:

And in Berkeley Square no nightingale sings, but I note that a Ferrari is for sale at a few pence less than half a million quid....

Then at the Connaught Hotel, where a single room for a single night will set you back £1,000 at least, there is a nice big white Rolls Royce with a Qatar number plate:

Oh, I would like a Qatar number plate.  No need to worry about parking.  No need to worry about ULEZ, nor the Dartford Crossing.  

And I might like to stay at the Connaught (though I guess I might feel a little out of place....)

Perhaps just a drink? Though an 1893 Sidecar, celebrating the 100th year anniversary of the Sidecar, a combination that pays homage to one

of the finest Cognac from that era (Adet 1893, Cointreau 1980s, fresh lemon juice), will cost you just £1,400.

There are many ways of interpreting power. Money has its effects. Brute strength has its way. The significant reluctance of Nadine Dorries to follow up her threat to resign shows the shabbiness of some tired and shallow people. The fall from grace of a private Embraer Legacy aircraft travelling from Moscow to St Petersburg yesterday suggests that no one is invulnerable.....

But power still throbs through our societies. I remember the thick cables that powered the Electric Arc Furnace at Brown Bayleys Steels Limited, Leeds Road, Sheffield. They were several inches thick, and as the furnace was powered up, they twitched and switched as if possessed. 

I'm out of here.

And if my thought-dreams could be seen

They’d probably put my head in a guillotine

But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

Bob Dylan

Or

I make a point to appreciate all the little things in my life. I go out and smell the air after a good, hard rain……. These small actions help remind me that there are so many great, glorious pieces of good in the world.

Dolly Parton