millionreasons | The days can't be like the nights

I don’t fare well in the heat. For one, ladies glow whilst ~~gentlemen perspire~~ topless blokes on the tube sweat buckets and for two, I’m a pale Yorkshire Rose. The last few days have been appropriate for June, but today the heat-bumps, red skin, exhaustion, sniffing, sneezing, snuffling and itching returns. The only people who do worse than me in the polluted, airless, damp, and heavy London heat are fat gingers.

We hide from the weather in the Hayward Gallery and take a loot at the surrealism expo. The inter-war years were a fascinating time: in Europe artists, writers and architects pushed every boundary back as far as they could get it, whilst in the US, jazz and blues started to give serious competition to classical music and Hollywood began in earnest. Radical political ideas abounded. But reading Georges Bataille’s offerings, it seems terribly old-fashioned to think that one could change the world through extreme sculpture. Couple of nice Picassos though.

Walk down to Borough Market for samples and actual purchases, then attempt to go to the Tate to see the new hangings, but end up sitting under a shady bush reading the free copy of the Guardian the Hayward was handily giving out. Overhead are helium red balloons to celebrate Architecture Biennale Week and then a load of fighter planes in formation to celebrate the Queen’s other birthday. It must be a nightmare buying presents for the Queen when there’s Christmas and two birthdays and probably wedding and ascending to the throne anniversary presents. Perhaps Charles could buy some carbon offsetting for the pointless fly past.

Over the bridge and we wait ½ an hour for a no. 4 before giving up and getting the hot clammy tube. We discover later that Fleet St was closed for the Colour Trooping, thus delaying the buses. Yeah, thanks Queen. Every time I see my salary deductions, I’m so glad that some of my 23% is going to fund you and your layabout, dysfunctional, inbred bunch of cunts.

Back home, I snooze through Ghana/Czech and stumble out overdosed on cetirizine dihydrochloride to chez Heike where I have half a glass of wine and fall asleep in her hammock. We watch Italy foul USA into a draw and Jo and DJ talk about trekking in Bhutan, whilst I get tired just thinking of walking up Primrose Hill.