Nov 256 min read

Chiswick, Again

River life nearby

When wandering the outer streets of Bath, I came upon a used bookstore and couldn't resist picking up Altered States, by Anita Brookner. There is a protagonist who recounts anticipating, with magical, or at least lustrous thinking, things going in a way that could never be. I find myself similarly situated, as I laughingly remember intentions made when packing up to leave Boston, that after having fun with Nat and friends, I would go inwards to address deeper questions about life's next steps. But if you spent 10 minutes here, you'd know that it's not a place conducive to contemplation, rather one where domestic emergencies tend to pop up, whether a need for a pointy cabbage, assistance ziplocking moth-eaten sweaters or stopping everything to run down two flights of stairs to see the amaryllis in full bloom. And then there's the river, which can have tides so high that you find the need to walk all the way around a very large block and call Josef to let you in the back entrance, hopefully he is at home. And most embarassingly, after years of resisting, I have given in to my aunt's enthusiasm for Strictly Come Dancing, watching tattooed midlanders wearing goofy yellow outfits with pointy shoes move their bodies in ways their eyes tell us they aren't comfortable with. All prompting some serious existential questioning on my part.

High tide on the Thames, coming into the driveway

But a feeling of accomplishment has also been present, when the passport was finally sent off for renewal, after going to four different post offices, old pound sterling notes were exchanged for new ones, a gym has been found and used, wax was purchased to waterproof a coat. It seems that little things take much more time and that the only thing for it is a flexible and reactive aspect.

But it's been a great week. Was it you who told me about Time Left, the world's worst name for a fun idea? If so, thank you. I met up with 5 random strangers last Wednesday at a confusingly Italian named Asian restaurant in South Kensington. From an awkward beginning bloomed an almost raucous night of sharing bites and hopes, stories about our families and lives and at the end, NameDropping each other so that we could meet again, which has already been set. Was I particularly entertained because I was sitting next to an aging Bollywood star who lived in Holland Park near David Beckham and David Cameron, and called me Darling? Perhaps.

And how about this stroke of luck? A couple I know from Longwood happened to be here and fixed up some mixed doubles at Queens Club, an old tennis club situated absurdly in the middle of the city scrum, yet sporting grass courts and a very fine women's locker room. After playing four sets on a cold indoor court, we alighted to the bar and then the Real Tennis viewing room, where the quarter finals of the Nationals were being played. What an interesting and funny sport that makes clear its origins in a courtyard with many arcane rules and expressions. And as glam as some parts of the club were, I'll take our "corner of the earth" any day.

Our own T. Mayotte in 1986

Real, or court tennis National QF. Aussies on this side, Brits on the other. Aussies won.

Fresh flowers in the locker room. Don't really understand the Harrods catalogues, but whatever

The towels are absurdly thick. And warm.

The two days in Bath had chilled me to the bone, leading me to regret leaving my puffy in Boston. I toughed it out for a week or so, but finally broke down and bought a coat worthy of a hockey mom, though the label reads Marks and Spencer, not Canada Goose. I was happy to have it when I went for a walk with two friends behind Hampton Court. An interesting configuration, there was a golf course that we walked right down the middle of, despite people playing, with no issue. There was something about this assumption that we could all be grownups and look after ourselves that made me understand why life on this side of the Atlantic makes me more relaxed. Less fuss, more faith it will all turn out alirght. I was told by an Eton man that Donald Trump is a kidney stone that America has to pass, meaning "just get on with it and quit wingeing". A GP, he got to talking, in his unassuming, you might even say apologetic way, about what it was like to continue to practice during COVID. The PPE was "a bit of a bother" but he felt blessed, perhaps even a little guilty, to be one of the few people who was able to carry on his work normally. When I asked if there was any drama for him around vaccinations, he looked at me and said "Of course not. We're a practical people and understand what's good for us."

Back to the walk, my friend brought Clover along, by far the most well-behaved dog I've had the pleasure of meeting (Lenny, I'll always love you the most, but you're not a city dog). We'd cross big and busy roads and Clover would, without a lead on, stand next to her owner and wait to cross, even in a median. It was really quite astounding. So when the owner saw the dog show jumps near the golf course, she volunteered to show us what Clover could do. Despite energetic encouragement, the dog ignored her and went off sniffing, so to further encourage her, my friend jumped over the hurdle herself, but the dog ran the other way. It was clear that Clover was having a bit of fun with her owner. When the trainer of a small pug in designer clothes who was being put through the paces yelled at my friend for invading their highly disciplined space, we had a giggle and wandered off.

Hampton Court. Too bad you can't see the door inside the door inside the door inside the door.

Gates of Hampton Court

Real live mistletoe in its natural state

Saturday was blowing a gale called Bert, so I headed for London intending to take in the National Gallery after stopping in at the Saatchi, which can be hit or miss. It was the former and took my afternoon, with several really good photography exhibits along with paintings and fiber art by two African artists. When going to get on the Tube at West Kensington, there was such a crowd of people in a very small space that it looked like a crushathon was about to begin, so I turned around and hoofed it to the next stop. Hopefully everyone survived.

The work of Jack Kabanju was beautifully textured, color-wise and physically

Samuel Nnorom's fiber art looks so much better in person

Store near Saatchi called Essentially Antwerp. I so don't understand what they've got going on.

While we're on the subject of museums, a couple of weeks back, my friend and I went to the Museum of the Home, which is also worth mentioning as it's incredibly well done and engaging. We started in an 1800's tenement and worked our way up to a 2024 Vietnamese apartment.

An old chair at the Museum of the Home

Bathroom in the 2021 lesbian couple apartment exhibit, Museum of the Home. Looking good, Maggie.

Poster at the shop, Museum of the Home.

A friend of Auntie's invited us to attend a Christmas Fair, which may not have been something at the top of my list, but going seemed the right thing to do. We ended up in the cozy kitchen of a country estate, having a most wonderful English lunch of potato and leek soup, salad and cheese, 8 of us sitting around a farmer's table, making me wish I could take photographs. As well as renting out one of their halls every weekend for weddings and other special events, the family also earns revenue through their 100-year old rhodedendron park, the sale of Christmas trees, a tea room and the dreaded Christmas Market. I sat next to the matriarch of the family, who had inherited the property and has been resposible tfor turning it into the bustling business it had become. She explained that taking this multi-pronged approach was the only way they could maintain the estate. At 83, she and two gardeners maintained all the 30-acre exterior. On the property were enough houses that three of her children, their spouses and kids, all of whom helped out in the family business, were able to live. I loved the matriarch very much when she said she wasn't going to join us at the fair because "Really, how many smelly candles can one actually have?"