Underground

One of my modes of transport today. First I met my mum at Kensington Palace to hear a fascinating talk by an old friend of mine based on her new biography of Queen Victoria from the perspective of changing ideas about gender through the nineteenth century. Among many other things, she mentioned migration to the UK and used her husband’s family’s as an example. Exchange afterwards:
‘That bit about my family. What was all that about? They never came from Germany!’
‘They did, darling, I researched it all for your sister, remember?
‘Austria, maybe, but not Germany.’
‘No, darling, they came from Germany.’
Pause.
‘Ah... So when I filled in the evaluation form saying I’d learnt something, that was right.’
 
Then, to the Saul Leiter exhibition. Small. Wonderful. Not doing a review; just go if you can get to London. Unfortunately my photography was no better after I came out than before I went in so the gap between ability and aspiration has widened.
 
Quite a bit later, to a 30th birthday party on a boat on the Thames, theme 1986. I am a disaster at fancy dress so decided to go with the flow and just be one. My costume – Chernobyl, obviously – really was a disaster. Last night I painted a nuclear warning sign on the back of a 1986 black top with the only yellow paint I could find in the house: 15-year-old poster paint. Putting it on a radiator didn’t dry it, just kind of melted it. I carted it around all day with newspaper over the painted bit and when I put it on at the beginning of the party it was still tacky (both senses). Had to tell everyone not to come near me as I was radioactive. There's a snap in extras (not of me) for those who know me and mine. The beatboxer got headhunted from the public bar on the top deck, where everyone leant over the railings to listen.
 
Another extra of a hot air vent.