A Spot of Culture and a Ginormous Bee

We went to London today, for a spot of culture. Andy is worried that I am starting to feel the effects of being house bound on a regular basis so decided a couple of weeks ago that a dose of Scary Capital City would liven me up to the big wide world once more.

'We'll go to the Tate,' he said. 'They've got a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition there. You like the Pre-Raphaelites, don't you?'

I agreed. I am very keen on this group of painters and their work. I studied them as part of my degree. They produced what I call 'proper art.' They were Bohemian and raffish. They were my kind of guys.

I was glad Andy suggested the Tate and not the Tate Modern. The last time we went to the Tate Modern I had recurrent urges as we wandered around to either a) kick the exhibits and /or b) re-arrange the exhibits so they looked like 'proper art,' and not, for example, a pile of bricks covered in elephant dung or a bag of oranges in a cement mixer.

It's a half-an-hour walk along the Embankment from Charing Cross to the Tate. Going through Trafalgar Square we thought we'd have a quick look to see who was doing their hour on the fourth plinth as part of Anthony Gormley's new living art installment. It was a bloke. He was just sitting there, crossed legged. He was doing nothing.

Well, he might have been meditating or communing with the universe on a private level, but as public entertainment goes he was pants. Boring, M & S Y-fronts in white pants.

'If I did a spot on the fourth plinth,' I declared, 'I would do a full performance reading of 'Nearly King Jimbo.'
'I bet you would,' said Andy.
'It would be good publicity,' I said. 'Voices, costumes, I'd even get a tricycle up there so I could impersonate Mr Jobble.'
'And I could stand in the crowd selling copies of the book,' said Andy.
'I wouldn't sit up there crossed-legged doing nothing, that's for sure,' I said.
'Complete waste of time,' agreed Andy.

So off we went to the Tate. We walked past the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Downing Street. We saw the Changing of the Guard at Horse Guards Parade. We saw the War Memorial at the Cenotaph. There is an awful lot of British History in that short walk. We had a tricky moment outside Parliament when a hoard of French school children barged en masse along the pavement, scattering pedestrians in their wake.

'I'm not moving over!' shouted Andy.
'Neither am I!' I shouted too, and together we marched side-by-side, holding our patch on the pavement, winning our Waterloo.

The Tate was very good. We spent a very pleasant three hours perusing proper art, and not so proper art. We commented with authority on the not so proper art (because, quite frankly, some of it was pants). The Pre-Raphaelites were excellent. So was Hogarth. Turner was okay, but got a bit iffy as he grew older. We decided that perhaps his eye-sight was maybe starting to deteriorate towards the end of his career, a bit like Monet. I am not going to comment on Gilbert and George, save that I think they were having a laugh at the expense of a group of highly gullible art critics.

We had lunch in the cafe, we perused the gift shop. In the gift shop we saw A FAMOUS PERSON. If you watch 'The I.T Crowd' then you will know who the character of Moss is. If you don't watch 'The I.T Crowd, ' then you won't. But it was he.

'Look!' I hissed excitedly at Andy, cornering him by the art books. 'It's Moss from The I.T Crowd.'
'Oh yes,' said Andy. And he spent the next ten minutes stalking Moss, like he once stalked someone who looked like Terry Wogan at a wedding we went to a few years back.

On our way back to Charing Cross, we popped across Trafalgar Square to have another look at the fourth column and see if the latest person was making a bit more of an effort than the chap we saw in the morning.

And she was! A lady, dressed as a giant bee was talking all about bees. A sign declared she was a member of MENSA. We were much cheered by this sight. This was proper installation art.

So 'Hurrah' for the Giant Bee Lady!

And 'Hurrah' for Art!

And 'Hurrah' for getting out for the day and being newly inspired by a spot of culture!'

The Book Fayre Masterclass

Despite a severe case of hormone-related bloating (me, not Andy. Andy isn't allowed hormones, not all the while mine are playing up anyway), we set off sharpish this morning to catch the train for our MasterClass at Earl's Court on 'How to Get Published.' We arrive at Charing Cross and Andy takes charge because we are bound for the Devil's Bowels, I mean, the Underground. This means he has to grip my hand (firmly), say 'Follow me, I know where I am going',(firmly) and not stand any malarkey from me like fainting and/or screaming.

I take a deep breath, do as I am told and we arrive at Earl's Court safely without any face slapping or screaming abdab incidents.

'Have we got time for a wee and a tea?' I ask.
'I should think so,' says Andy, maintaining a firm grip on my hand until we are safely across the road away from any London traffic I might decide to scream at for trying to mow me down when the traffic lights are CLEARLY RED.

But no. We have to join the QUEUE FOR REGISTRATION. It is a conference, after all, and these things have to be done properly. Behind us in the queue are two women holding a very loud conversation about their various publishing experiences. The most annoying out of the two (the American, there's a surprise), is speaking noisily about how she used to work in publicity for the Bush administration, which personally, I wouldn't want to advertise to anyone. Thankfully, the queue begins to move just before I reach the point of trans-Atlantic intolerance. (Andy, very wisely, is still hanging onto my hand.)

'I wonder if they'll be serving coffee and biscuits,' says Andy.
I snort. 'You'll be lucky,' I say. 'This is London. You don't get anything free in London. They'd charge you to bury your own Granny in London.'
'I don't have any grannies,' says Andy.
'Neither do I,' I say. 'And we won't get any coffee and biccies either in this mercenary temple of Mammon, not without handing over at least twenty quid.'

Inside, it appears we have been 'pre-registered.' I don't know how this happened. I wasn't aware I'd 'pre-registered' us but it means we can by-pass the queues and go straight to the third floor via a very fast and stomach-churning lift.

I am very good. I don't throw up once.

On the third floor we are greeted by very smiley Book Fayre people who guide us to the free coffee, tea and and mini-pastries. Sigh...

The MasterClass itself is re-assuringly positive. It doesn't really tell me anything I'm not already aware of (on account of the fact I might be an as yet unpublished writer but I AM a meticulous researcher) and one of the authors - Lola Jaye - is very entertaining and sounds like she has experienced the exact frustrations I am experiencing. Kate Mosse, author of Labyrinthe and Sepulchre, is inspiring and passionate and the two chappies - one publisher and one agent - offer practical advice in a simple-to-understand way. The only person I don't like is the guy who had self-published. He seems many things 'self.' Self-absorbed, self- promoting, me, me,me-self. He is also a shameless name-dropper who seems out of his depth and unable to answer questions properly. He also seems to think that if you write a blog, then it won't be long before you are noticed by the press and 'Bob's your Agent,' you'll be published, no probs.

'Hurrah!' I think, though not without a degree of cynicism towards his wild declaration. Still, I am open to offers, acts of Fate and happy coincidences.

After negotiating our way back to Charing Cross, Andy bribing me with the promise of a visit to the M & S food hall for nice sandwiches, crisps and cakes for the train journey home, we arrive home and I now know what I must do.

I must:
1) have confidence in my writing skills because I can write
2) keep writing because the more I write the better I'll get
3) give myself time to be a good writer and enjoy what I am doing without beating myself up about the lack of a three book deal

and 4) have fish and chips for tea because they are BOUND to be a sure fire way to get rid of my bloating. And if they don't, well, if you're already having a fat day, might as well justify it, that's what I say!