And did those feet…

Yesterday, for the first time, I visited the Dulwich Picture Gallery – the world’s first purpose built art gallery (and not a slightly oddly named cinema).  For reasons that should not be too obscure, this required me to visit Dulwich.

I journeyed to Clapham Junction and then via the London Overground and Southern Railways negotiated the maze of railway lines that criss-cross south London to reach North Dulwich.  I am not in charge of tourism (yet), but I would guess that top of the final destination list for most casual visitors to North Dulwich is the DPG – but it is not mentioned either on the local map at the station or any nearby signpost.  Despite this, I still managed to find the place: wandering through the rather shishi surrounds of Dulwich village to reach it.

Both of my parents were born in Dulwich and much of my now departed (for a better place) family were also resident in its environs – and so I have heard many tales of the place in the 30s and 40s.  I have to say that Dulwich was a lot more upmarket than I had been expecting: I begin to suspect that I have fallen rather further socially than I had previously imagined.  At every step, I wondered if I was placing my feet where my ancestors (and particularly my father as a small boy) had previously trod.  However, none of the street names seemed familiar, which surprised me.  (Many years ago, I did help a minicab driver to get me home from East Dulwich to Gipsy Hill based only on familial anecdotes dating from some 50 years previous: he may have become slightly alarmed when I told him to turn by a school, which I then had to admit had been destroyed in the Blitz).  It was not until I left the DPG and walked towards West Dulwich station that I encountered a familiar name: Thurlow Park Road.  The large houses near the station seemed eerily similar to faded, black and white photos I can vaguely recall seeing.  Had I found the wellspring from whence I came?

I had gone to the DPG to see an exhibition of works by Eric Ravilious – and was not disappointed.  His oddly empty landscapes and interiors, often captured from an unexpected point of view, are wonderful, and even where human figures are present they are oddly ghostly.  The man can make a line of wooden poles carrying low voltage electricity cable look beautiful.  If this doesn’t tempt you, then I can promise you a fine rendering of the Duke of Hereford’s Knob (which is surprisingly safe to Google – well, it is for me but your own search history may affect the results.  If you encounter something horrific, you have only yourself to blame!).  Actually, it is quite a fine prominence and I wouldn’t mind finding myself astride its peak.

As well as the Ravilious, the DPG also contains a substantial collection of Old Masters (and I’m not talking elderly teachers).  One, The Translation of St Rita of Cascia,  made me laugh out loud – which is considered poor gallery etiquette.  The eponymous Rita does seem to be cocking a snook at what I took to be Cascia below – rarely have I seen a saint so obviously showing-off.  Clearly, the inexplicably missing speech bubble should contain words to the effect of “Look ma, no hands!”.

The day continued after leaving Dulwich.  I discovered that today is the last day for the cutting of asparagus in the UK.  I’m not sure what happens if you continue to cut after the deadline, but I suspect the over-stretched nature of Her Majesty’s Constabulary means that you are unlikely to end up before the Beak.

My evening’s entertainment means that I can throughly recommend Alex Edelman as a very funny chap, and the StageSpace at the Pleasance in Islington as a sauna (if you lack access to one at home or the gym).

Heading home, I continued reading Tigerman by Nick Harkaway.  As my tube drew into Embankment our hero won a brief victory and I found myself in a public place with tears rolling down my cheeks (the ones on my face, obvs – I lack the flexibility for my tears to stream down any other possibility).  Luckily, for the train journey home matters became less emotional – though I did save the denouement for this morning when I could face it with a fresher brain.  This turned out to be a good plan, as tears streamed down my face (in the privacy of my boudoir) for most of the thirty minutes it took me to finish the book this morning.  It is a very good book and I am an over-emotional old fool.

Due to an administrative error by the purchasing department, there were no bananas in the flat this morning (heads have already rolled) – and so someone (me) had to go and acquire some in order to break his fast.  I discovered (to my mild surprise) that I still retain sufficient self-respect to want to wait until the redness of my eyes had reduced somewhat (the morning was insufficiently sunny for me to carry off a pair of shades – I’m neither a rockstar nor a complete git).  So, I killed a little time condemning Dolores Umbridge to death a la romana – and rather more time explaining my working (it’s where most of the marks lie).  What a splendid way to start the day: as a modern day, lachrymose Jack Ketch for the fictional.