This
week, a lovely woman, a new M.P., who lived on a barge and had two small
children, one of whom was named after a mountain she had climbed with her
husband. This woman who stood up for refugees and the rights of women and for
staying in Europe, was murdered.
I’m sure you know all of this. But it has
rocked this country to the core. Campaigning for the referendum was silenced.
Parliament went quiet. The front pages of the newspapers carried her smiling
face.
Went
to the theatre. Saw a play about a couple, two women, one of whom had dementia.
Her partner had to choose whether she should have a surgery which would give
her back her life but cut out twenty years of her memory which meant their
shared life would disappear and her wife would no longer recognize her.
Saw
another startling funny play about rehab and recovery. Sat next to Peter
Capaldi, the newest Doctor Who. I didn’t let on I knew Who he was.
And aAnother
set in 1967 and 1976 on a Greek Island. Two couples, one young and British. One
older and American. A military Coup, the
CIA. The role of the invaders;
Political
and affluent.
Wine
on the South Bank.
.
Cheese
from Neal’s Yard. Knickers from Marks and Spencer. Profiteroles from Casanova
and Daughters.
Looked at the Birkenstock shop. Was astonished when a
shop girl, hawking hand cream, called out to me “ Are you American?” I asked
old boyfriend later why she would have said that.
“ I don’t know.” He said. “ you look like a
sailor…..I mean, you look streamlined…”
Supper
with aforementioned old boyfriend. Boyfriends that can still make you dissolve
in laughter. A rare thing, methinks.
A
trip down to Wales. From Paddington Station to Glamorganshire.
Where
everyone used to work in the coal mines till they closed them down. Or the Port
Talbot steelworks. That is where Uncle Gordon says he got his bad lungs.
Nowadays, especially if the sun isn’t shining. Which it doesn’t very
often…Neath is a whole lot of grey.
The
bright light comes from Auntie Connie of the crayon blue eyes and her toy-boy, Gordon. Her words not mine. In their
bungalow, up the Cimla. The hill above Neath.
They
were called uppity by my dour relations when they moved up there a couple of
decades ago. 93 years apiece.
Most of their RAF friends gone. Pills in the
morning, pills at night. A bit of cancer
and heart problems thrown in. Salad cream and crisps on their lunchtime salad. Cups
of strong tea all through the day and the best sense of humour to be found west
of the Severn.
“
Let’s hold hands Connie. For the photo.” He said.
“
Well, there you are.” She said
Back
at Paddington found the brass band that plays every Friday evening.
Platform
8. Just for the pleasure of it.
The
Houses of Parliament, Richard the Lionheart and a mini.
Sunday
morning. Sung Eucharist at Westminster Abbey.
Organ prelude to shake the bones of all those
buried Kings. Young voices higher than the
clouds. Light pouring in through circular stained glass windows. A sermon about Jo Cox and Orlando.
Tomorrow
is Midsummer’s Eve. Will try and find somewhere ancient to stand and watch the
last of the light disappear.
Good
night from London
