“I am burning, I am burning … “
Well, thank you London, for showing me you’re capable of producing summer, but I am not sure if I can handle it.
Today I was stuck to the Tube, or more specifically to the millions of green and blue poly-fibres sprouting vertically from my grimy seat, which always cause unexpected yet significant discomfort against the bare skin of my thighs if I happen to be wearing shorts or a skirt shorter than knee-length. All these tiny sticks of plastic pointed and poised defiantly on my skin, irritating it slowly but surely, burning as the sun does as you walk about nonchalantly, gently going about its job as a minor disappointment in my perfectly decent life.
“Feed us water, please have mercy.” said the Orchids to the Office Kitchen Sink
When I finally reached my stop, I was quite relieved to release myself from these spikes and peel myself up back into standing position. My legs did the equivalent of a little ‘Ooh!’ one does when you stretch a difficult yoga stretch. What an ordeal that was to be poked by so many annoying pokey-things in so many places and thank goodness that is over. There is a minuscule layer of ridges left on my skin where the seat used to be, which is plain testimony to the significant discomfort suffered during the journey.
I hopped off at South Kensington today to see a BBC Prom (No. 5), the first of a few planned in my diary this week. Going solo, I packed a petit picnic of cheese and bread and a handful of berries in a Nutella-glass, which I had licked clean of its chocolate this morning for breakfast. This is all served me very well up in the Gallery of the Gods of the Royal Albert Hall; I think I will repeat this little ritual on my next visits.
Three minutes before showtime I took my chances, ran downstairs and managed to sneak into a second-tier box (No. 80) to join a dear friend of mine who had been involved in the preparation of this Prom. Suspecting fellow box-sitters did not openly show their suspicion. There is very little privacy to be had in these boxes, save for a half-hearted wall dividing each compartment. I did enjoy a good chunk of Beethoven Missa Solmenis in a red velvet chair with elbows resting on the balcony, but the wealthy late-comers eventually arrived and I was forced to go.
“What the hell were you doing sitting there?!” said the lady usher as I rushed past them at the door. I can’t remember what I said or did but I was definitely far too proud of myself to apologise, and the lady usher had very wide eyes when she stared at me.
By the way, Missa Solemnis has now been added to my favourites list.