Foreign parts

[venta]

On Saturday, I became a rabid tourist.

Pausing only to collect my hapless mate Dave, who didn't say "no" fast enough, I thought I'd go and bring myself up to speed on one those things in London which everyone's supposed to see...

I'm not sure if I liked it. The architecture of the abbey is lovely - it's very finely drawn, given its period, and very light and airy compared to, say, the chunky-ponderous style of Durham Cathedral. However, once inside it's really more of a mausoleum than an abbey, being absolutely stuffed to the gunnels with tombs, monuments, and gravestones.

In order to cope with the tremendous number of tourists, there are little ropes, and signs all round the abbey, making sure you walk along a pre-determined path, and don't go straying off into the unchartered regions of the "Quire". Added to that, there are stampedes of tourists determined to do the place, as they trot round: In -> Medieval kings -> Elizabeth I -> Mary, Queen of Scots, -> Poets Corner -> Unknown Warrior -> Out, all in about 20 minutes.

I don't particularly like being sheperded or stampeded, so that did detract somewhat from the whole thing. However, there are good things to be said.

Firstly, watching fashions in tombs change is amazing. There's the uncompromising solidity of the medieval coffins. Then the ludicrously gaudy, gilded, decorated, bejewelled, OTT, we-want-to-be-the-Medicis affairs which led up to the Jacobean period - which seemed to consist of making things out of brown marble. Life size kneeling mourners round the coffin, for preference.

Things stay moderately undestinctive, then, until the Georgians decide that cool, smooth, classical marble statuary is what's needed. Carved into mourning nymphs, moping sea creatures, stricken gods, angels hanging up tablets depicting the departed, laurel wreaths... and that's just one monument. And everything veered from bad to worse as the Victorians decided that cherubs was what really made a grave.

At some point - I think just pre-Georgian - the coyness about death which I always blame on the Victorians seemed to creep in. Where gravestones had had skulls, and the words 'dead' and 'corpse' and 'remains' on them (and, in one case a tableau depicting a skeletal Death hurling a spear into the striken wife while the husband tried to protect her), words like 'passed away' started to appear. While some of the earlier tombs were quite violently conscious of man's mortality, and the nearness of death, I think I'd take that over polite and hermetically-sealed euphemism any day.

Secondly, there's the wonderful language. I'm a sucker for interesting spellings anyway. But it's surprising to notice how many words have changed their meaning. A tombstone erected by "his afflicted wife" (did she have small pox, or something?), someone commended for "his condescending manner" (how very Lady Catherine de Burgh), and someone who's death was "deeply deplored in Parliament". I guess I just like that kind of thing.

I'm not big on looking at the graves of famous people, even if they're people I admire. However, I was absurdly pleased to stumble across the tombstone of Aphra Benn. She's not in Poets' Corner, and is lying mostly unnoticed by trampling sightseers in the cloisters. In the circs, I was glad to notice her and say hello.

As ever, walking about with Dave reminded me that my knowledge of history is really rather poor. Yet another thing to go on the list of stuff To Do.

We pottered gently round Westminster and St James in the afternoon, following yet another of Andrew Duncan's walks. It never ceases to amaze me just how damn quiet parts of London are at the weekend. We tried to go to The Paviour's Arms near Westminster, London's only Art Deco pub, and scheduled for demolition. But it was shut. Pubs which shut on Saturdays ? Pah.

St James is a strange area in many ways, with a few streets jammed with "gentleman's" shops. More badger hair shaving brushes than you could shake a strop at, shirtmakers, perfumers, even. And an amazing rifle shop, with safari clothes and the memoirs of elephant hunters in the window. Amazing to think that areas like that still exist.

We wound up our perambulations at The Chandos, somewhere near Trafalgar Square, for a few drinks (Pintwatch: nearly fell off feet when charged a mere £1.64 for a pint of Sammy Smiths Old Brewery bitter). There are civilised pubs in London after all. You just need locals to find them for you...


I was off roleplaying on Sunday, in lathany's Swordsmaster game, which a few other people have already written up. My character despairs increasingly that the rest of the party will ever have any real concept of what's important in life - or indeed any concept at all beyond nancing[*] about and looking cool :)

On the plus side, lathany and bateleur's twins have finally stopped being babies, and become people. Small people, admittedly, and with somewhat limited vocabulary, but people none the less. This is a fine thing. Well, it is if you don't have responsibility for looking after the little dears.[**]

I seem to have broken out in footnotes of late...

[*] to nance, verb. © quisalan :)

[**] Or should that, in the circs, be "little mooses"?


And this evening, some more pastry practice to make a mushroom and Quorn pie for Frances, Andy and myself. chrestomancy sensibly took one look at my Swedish Chef-style antics and promptly invented a pressing engagement the other side of Cowley :) However, the results were a slight improvement on last time. I have also evolved Elizabeth's first law of Pastry:

However much pastry you make, and whatever you plan to to do with it... there will always be enough scraps left over at the end to make a small oggy. Mmmm.

Comments

[venta.livejournal.com]

You're misunderstanding. It's one of those expandable things.

So if I intend to make a pie, a small oggy and a pastry cake (no, never heard 'em called that), I will then have enough left over to make another small oggy.

It seems.