A TRIP UP TO TOWN

   

A TRIP UP TO TOWN

   Up to town with Crichton this morning so an early start to walk the hounds before we left. Of course, Brexit got away from me in the copse and we were out rather longer than I expected. By the time we got back, we were a full five minutes late setting off (shocking) and Crichton was already in a stew about getting caught up in traffic on the Hammersmith Gyratory. He drove like a dervish the whole way and arrived in record time. I know which side of the family Arraminta takes after!

   He dropped me at the V and A just as it opened, which was a mercy, as there was a cruel wind blowing up The Cromwell Road and I wouldn’t have wanted to be hanging about in the doorway like the kid I passed on the pavement. I dropped a couple of pounds into her polystyrene cup, thinking that in different circumstances it could easily be Arraminta sitting there. Poor thing, it was bitter.

   ‘It’s free to come in,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you join me?’

   The girl shook her head. 

   ‘I don’t think they’d let me ‘collect’ or have a lie down in there,’ she said and pulled her sleeping bag round her, ‘But thanks all the same.’

   So I went in alone and spent a peaceful hour enjoying ceramics in the Asymmetrical Rococo Gallery. I particularly liked a sweet little figure of a naked baby playing the bagpipes. The Scots must have started them off early in those days.

  On the way to the tea rooms, I made a five-minute detour to the gift shop to get a couple of tins of those chocolate chip and cherry biscuits that Crichton likes so much. They are useful to sooth him with after a Brexit incident and I felt there might be one coming up soon. 

Catherine was waiting in the café at a table by one of the tiled pillars. The Pentax was out, and she was snapping away at a group of ceramic cherubs. 

   ‘I’ve got us both a Cappuccino,’ she said putting the camera down. ‘I hope that’s OK. 

   We air kissed. Almost. Catherine is a good six inches taller than me and I usually just get a pat on the head.

   ‘How’s it going?’ I asked. ‘I can see you’re busy.’

   ‘I am. It’s manic. So I can’t stop long, that’s why I ordered for you. I’ve got to be at the Foundling Hospital by twelve.’

   ‘Dropping off or picking up?’  

   Just a flicker of an eyebrow in response. 

   I coughed. 

   ‘Yes, so…um. I’m off to buy sportswear. Crichton and I have joined a gym.’

   The eyebrow moved again.

   ‘It’s quite all right to take the Mickey you know,’ I said, ‘the family think we are being optimistic too. But no photographs please, until we lose a few stone each.’

   Her wide smile lit up her face and she laughed at last.  ‘Ooh that could be quite a blog. You could start writing one yourself.’

   I shuddered. ‘Maybe one about the dogs, but not me in Lycra.’

   We finished our coffee and she left, promising to come and see us soon.  And I went to spend a penny. I met the girl from the street in the ladies. 

    ‘Thanks for the tip,’ she said, ‘It’s nice in here.’

    Such lovely manners. I gave her one of Crichton’s tins of biscuits.

   I managed to find a cab to take me up to Piccadilly on my quest for sportswear. 

It may not be the classy emporium of yore, but you really can’t beat Lillywhites for choice. I Came away with a plain black tracksuit, very expensive trainers, five pairs  of towelling socks, two ‘wicking’ T-shirts, some fabulous leggings printed with pineapples and flamingoes and…Oh Ye Gods…something calling itself ‘a shock absorbing crop top’…a lime green combination of brassiere and straight jacket. 

The assistant assured me that it was essential if I am not to damage my Coopers ligaments. 

I didn’t ask for clarification but divvied up Crichton’s credit card without looking at the total and just made the 3.30 from Paddington. I was back home in time for the six o’clock news and to wash the floor after Brexit’s latest accident. 

Exhausted.  An hour at the gym must be easier than a day up in town.

Crichton Comments

I knew I should have made Cynthia go up to town by train. She always makes me late. Alex was in a foul mood. He’s been up all night with croupy child… Jojo seems to think he should deal with all night time problems so she can be fresh during the day. Poor bastard. He’s only two years younger than me!