Live Grate

[millionreasons]

Saturday we have a parental visit, but after al fresco dining and cat stroking at

Kika, we go our separate ways at Trafalgar Square avoiding chaps in chaps blowing pink whistles. The parents go off to see a play and we to the National Portrait Gallery to look at the last bastion of Proper Painting – the BP sponsored portrait award. David thinks the worst ones are always self-portraits, but I’m just relieved there are none of famous people this year – it always seems as if the artist has to prove that they are someone by knowing Someone. Slightly traumatised by the moving upstairs of all the things I used to enjoy looking at (I was particularly fond of Zandra Rhodes's pink glittery head) in order to make room for Blur, David Beckham etc. At least they weren’t melted down, I suppose.

We wander down to Covent Garden and end up, incongruously, in a sports/outdoors shop which promises organic fairtrade coffee at less than outrageous prices. All shops must have a little coffee shop nowadays, although fortunately this one doesn’t have people rock-climbing or snow-boarding next to our cappuccini.

In the evening, we watch The House of Flying Daggers which is less pretty than Hero or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon but still an amazing amount of times better than the assemblage of old white rich men that is Live 8. Then again, the G8 are old white rich men so maybe Pink Floyd are the best people to make a stand and not the people who are the most negatively affected by the G8 decisions. Who include Asians and Americans (South and Central) and not just Africa. Most of it was sick-making, back-slapping smugness in the extreme, but other people have put it better than I could.

Here. Here. And indeed here.