|Joan Miró 'Tic Tic' (1927)|
|Lemon on a pewter dish. It is a reference to the yellow blob in the bottom right corner|
of the Miró - maybe a reference to Matisse? or maybe not.
|I could sit here for at least quarter of an hour.|
A colleague in Cambridge invited me to lunch one icy Sunday circa 1988. Kat always had something about her of the bohemian intellectual and I had none of that air and felt a bit… what?... ordinary in her presence. If I had people to dinner, I did all the cooking in advance and made sure guests would never see a dirty pan or used utensil. Kat was at the sink in her pinny peeling spuds when I arrived, and this struck me as almost daring. Now it seems most peculiar that I should have seen my preference for stage managing a meal as a sign of my social and intellectual inadequacy, but then I did, and there you are. Kat’s daughter was intimidatingly patrician in manner, with a confident demeanour and impeccable RP diction. Her son was drop-dead gorgeous, a year under-age and straight anyway, so forget it. At lunch there was from the family gleeful and malicious calumniating of Kat’s divorced husband, whom the children called by his first name, and so that I could join in, more such trashing of our boss, who was certifiably nuts.
|Probably not Lady Arabella's place, but close.|
|Approaching King's Bridge. This is how you lean to love freezing fog.|