Ain't London the dogs dangly things? All that dirt, all those shows, and London Pride. How proud you must be, cockerney ladies and gents. We had a great time doing the tourist thing. We never did see The Producers. Instead, we got a bit pretentious and slipped into the Hayward Gallery for a spot of arty stuff. We were inspired by those strange people that frequent the Festival Hall of a Sunday morning, who all nod knowingly while listening to the free (ie, not worth paying for) world music that accompanies their lattes. We though we'd have a piece of that, so promptly nipped next door to to stare, goggle-eyed, at Eyes, Lies & Illusions, which was a good laugh.
On the train back last night I planned to tuck into Peter Cook's EL Wisty monologues. Wisty, I thought, was the most boring man in the world. I hadn't figured on the bloke I'd be sat opposite, who had worked in quarrying but now worked in waste, who got through the hour it takes to travel from Kings Cross to Grantham by telling me a cautionary tale about the time he designed a waste disposal plant for a Singapore businessman who could speak Mandarin and Cantonese. The rest was lost on me, although he did add, as he put on his coat before leaving us to a more pleasant journey, that Hull will never be a Rotterdam due to the low cubic capacity of its docks. What do I care? Well, perhaps this is the attitude that leaves us lagging behind the Dutch. He wasn't Dutch, by the way. But his son had lived in North Acton.
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