What a week it has been in Merrie England readers! We have barely had time to mention the weather.
Two even more important things have been occupying our thoughts this week – the soap opera of British politics and my birthday, the difference being that although no two people could agree on events at Westminster a great many were kind enough to wish me well in the coming year, even if I shall have to overcome the disappointment of not being surprisingly invited to be a Minister for either side. (SURELY some mistake?)
Unlike Mr Cameron’s now empty diary mine has been packed; my Manolos have barely touched the floor. I have been taken out for afternoon tea no less than three times and what a joy it is that this wonderful tradition is now firmly back in fashion. Eggy sandwiches and champagne – is there a finer culinary combination?
I visited the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy and I highly recommend twenty minutes viewing the dross on display there before going upstairs to see David Hockney’s latest work. It’s like cooling water after a trek across a hot and barren desert or slipping on a Valentino gown after a day in nylon workwear. Not to be missed and extremely nice tea available at Fortnums across the road.
Impossible to miss is the extension to the Tate Modern, an enormous MacMansion of Art with only two drawbacks. Firstly the lifts, of which there are admittedly dozens, are as crowded as Japanese trains and appear to be operated by means of a magic word which is kept secret. Secondly the only, only thing worth looking at is the view from the 10th floor terrace, much higher than it sounds, and it can only be a matter of time before someone is blown off by the hurricane strength winds. Camera at the ready, people. I liked the irony of the notices requesting that visitors do not let their gaze fall into the surrounding luxury tower blocks. Walk round with our eyes closed then? You didn’t need to ask. The art on display is even worse than the Summer Exhibits; at least those have the enthusiasm of amateurs, although on reflection the Tates exhibitors could not possibly be making a living as painters, unless they combine it with a little light decorating as well. My eyes were spurting blood and there was a thin, high shriek as my skin tried to tear itself from my body and follow Elvis out of the building. On the plus side there was lovely cake.
And baked goods brings me, somewhat immodestly, to the news that I won the Bake Off (Savoury Section) competition at the Strawberry Hill House Summer Party. And those who know my feelings concerning kitchen based activities will think that this was rather more worthy of a front page splash than Boris’s becoming Foreign Secretary. Turns out we both have hidden depths.