After the waterworld of Christmas, New Year’s Day was inspiring with blue skies and brilliant sunshine, which we toasted with a walk across Barnes Bridge followed by a sparkling glass of champagne.

Boats out on the river and everybody and his dog tramping along the muddy banks of the Thames with smiles on their faces. A promising start to 2013 …

And then we went home and toasted the New Year in with our best bottle of champagne.

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Not much seems to have improved on the economic front this year but the Christmas lights in central London, though still not quite as elegant as the Champs-Elysées, do have their own special aura. Whoever decides on what lights to choose has themselves been well chosen. I shudder at remembrance of times past and much appreciate the present offerings!

John and I did a whistlestop tour of central London to buy a few gifts before heading off for the Cotswolds. We both mourn the demise of Tower Records at Piccadilly but the helpful and cheerful assistants at the beleaguered HMV still make a journey there worthwhile. I am still not an Amazon fan but no doubt that internet tsunami will swallow us all in time. And cheerful, helpful and well informed assistants will be replaced by robots. On the other hand I love finding things out and the Internet is amazing on that front. But continuing human contact is essential for a life worth living and for the world as a whole.

Next stop, Marylebone, where I have a print waiting to be picked up at Railings Gallery. It’s of a dog (by Helen Fay), which I bought at the RA Summer Exhibition. The frame cost as much as the print but it looks fabulous. Railings are excellent, quality framers. I keep thinking about having a dog but this one will keep me satisfied for the moment. He is called Louis and has lovely lines. And I don’t need to feed him or wipe his muddy paws. But I’d like his company in person on a long walk.

The picture was heavy but we stopped off at Paul Rothe delicatessen in Marylebone Lane to revive ourselves. Established in 1900, Paul Rothe and Son is now into its fourth generation behind the counter. It is run with old fashioned politesse and has the friendliness of a village shop but in upmarket, stylish Marylebone. Look them up – why are the chairs bolted to the floor, for instance?! Don’t pass it by – it’s a real find!

We had homemade hot minestrone soup and tuna sandwiches, surrounded by a ceiling to floor selection of delicious looking jams, pickles and sweets. I remembered Newbery fruits from my childhood. My father’s colleague, Dr. Gilchrist, always brought a box over on New Year’s Day. We now bought two boxes, along with chilli sauce, a favourite of John’s father.

Glitz was to be had in Bond Street but austerity measures were kept up and we made our way home to wrap up Newbery Fruits and the like for the Cotswold contingent. And I looked out my long, cashmere cardigan, bought last year in the sales. An Eileen Fisher – quite special! It’s always colder in the countryside. I must remember my hot water bottle too.

But sadly, not for us. We are expected in the Cotswolds …via a quick visit to Fortnum’s.

The next morning was grey and threatened rain. We got as far as Chiswick Bridge and had to go back for various ‘things forgotten’. However, the roads were passable and not too busy. I spent some time in cloud contemplation and taking photos of water meadows and plain flooded fields at speed. The bypass at Oxford must have been built above the general level as we passed interminable ‘lakes’ on either side, with the tops of hedges sticking out like old toothbrushes.

I had a feeling of ‘déjà vu’ – we’ve done this journey so many times and now we are on the cusp of major change … John’s parents are now 92 and 90. Taking photographs appeals to one’s sense of self … keeping memories of things past while looking towards the future – and meanwhile enjoying what the present has to offer keeps one sane to an extent. Bad weather but good skyscapes today … I wonder what Samuel Johnson or Shakespeare would have taken pictures of… we are so enormously privileged today with all these inventions – yet many people often behave like spoilt three year olds, not realising their good fortune.

And we finally arrive – the steep road into the village resembles a waterfall as we descend but at least the water makes its way onwards – elsewhere …

And the rain continues to accompany Christmas festivities. However, there is good food and jolly company, a nonagenarian dowager dressed in glamorous tartan and a fur hat, a charming black labrador, white Christmas flowers, a sparkling tree and a warm stove.

It’s late afternoon as we make our way home next day. No traffic jams, a break in the rain as we climb the hill out of Burford. An accident at the Burford/Witney roundabout where a car has smashed through the central reservation and ended up on top of the bank opposite. The police wave us round. Then it’s only dramatic pictures of flooded fields, a few 100+ mile an hour drivers – mainly seem to be BMWs – and we’re on the home straight.

It’s very quiet back in Barnes. The house is warm and cosy and I’m looking forward to the holiday with reading, writing, walking and wine. And John will be writing his new book. I will press for a glass of really good champagne on New Year’s Day. I hope 13 will be lucky for once!

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I was waiting for a friend outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square – clouds were scudding across the sky – the weather was fitful, fretful, undependable. A gust of wind flung a spit of rain across my cheek and pulled at my hair. The exhibition we were about to visit was about the man who would have become Henry IXth. He was much loved and deeply mourned by the English people, dying of typhoid at the age of eighteen. His younger brother became Charles I.

It’s quite a small exhibition and worth a visit, especially if you are the sort of person who thinks about what might have been, should nature have taken a different course – as happened here.

The lost prince was about to be revealed to us inside the gallery. Outside, meanwhile, Nelson was choreographing the cloudscape while I watched both him and also the aeroplane passing overhead.

Our lunch at Browns in St Martin’s Lane amongst the potted palms and gleaming brass was very satisfying, the equivalent of a good French brasserie. The bar is long, impressive and inviting, with a pianoforte of sparkling glass. This Grade II building was formerly the location of the Westminster County Court. Upstairs are the judges’ rooms, now used for various private functions. It’s worth exploring – both upstairs and downstairs, before you leave.

I’m aware now at my age that there is so much that I will never know. Probably for the best, in some cases. But I feel the need not to lose what I do know and to keep expanding it – not in a linear way but instead, like three dimensional printing.

I seem to remember reading that the weight of ‘dark matter’ in the universe could be partly made up of thoughts. Are deeper thoughts weightier than shallower ones? How do we measure what we know and don’t know when we are not sure how much there is to know in the first place … ah well, Trafalgar Square and The National Galleries are a good place to expand what I already know. And Nelson keeps busy, with his head in the clouds.

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It’s really worth looking ‘up’ from time to time as you beetle about your important business … no more so than standing on the opposite side of the street at Haymarket, where the horses jostle each other on the corner. Raise your eyes and leap into the blue. As ever, the clouds provide a perfect backdrop …

If I had been shown these photos some months ago and asked in which city I might find them, I wouldn’t have guessed they were in London. Maybe you would – but, just in case, I’m asking you to look up from all your gadgets from time to time! It may be to your advantage … the body beautiful awaits you … and much else besides.

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I don’t belong to Twitter… am happy not to tweet … but this ‘poem’ came to mind on the Piccadilly line … short but haiku sweet.

On the tube at Kensington
I saw a man so smartly dressed
Staring at his stylish garb
Embarrassed (for I stared too hard)
Then at Green Park he flew away
Umbrella’d on that rainy day.

END

We were passing the Odeon Shaftesbury Avenue, near to the market on Earlham Street when we had this – well – surreal experience. A sparky Irish girl came by – you can spot her legs in one of the photos. She stopped and got off her bike to join us in this fishy encounter.

The streets of central London are never dull – and then those Irish legs jumped onto her bike and she disappeared at top speed. All of a moment captured in time …

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I tend to think that sunsets must always be best in exotic places. Here are two which prove me wrong!

This also gives me the opportunity to quote one of my favourite speeches in Shakespeare’s Henry IV Pt. 1. This play was part of the ‘The Hollow Crown’ series which was on BBC 2 earlier this year, produced by Sam Mendes. Jeremy Irons was faultless as the old king and Tom Hiddleston shone out as his son, Hal. This is spoken by him …

‘Yet herein will I imitate the sun
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
that, when he pleases again to be himself
Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.’

We have had more than enough of those vapours of late but tempered by some glorious open skies. The sunset below is taken from the top window of our house.

The colours remind me of the leaves described by Shelley in his ‘Ode to the West Wind’ – ‘yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red’ – worth a look for that and the rhythm of the poem. I must sweep up those Autumn leaves now!

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We took the train to Lausanne in August. John and I had been invited to stay with a colleague so they could discuss ideas about a book they are writing together. It’s a pity continental train travel is so expensive as opposed to the plane but later in the year, when I explored the possibility of going to Aix-en-Provence by TGV, it was a lot cheaper than to Lausanne. When I asked why such a difference in price, I was told it was because of crossing borders! I think SNCF might work on getting that sorted out because if we go to Switzerland again it would have to be by plane re cost – even though the train was preferable. You do have to make the change from the Eurostar (Gare du Nord) to Gare de Lyon – and signposting is not very clear – but it’s only two stops on the RER. The Gare de Lyon could do with more seats in the waiting area – we ended up sitting outside the station – which wouldn’t be possible in cold and rainy weather… here endeth a paragraph of ‘nuts and bolts’ for those so minded with practical detail!

I was looking forward to this TGV trip to Aix. We had to change at Lille – easy – same station, downstairs platform. Orange and brown continue to be the colours of Belgian choice. The loos are, in mood, like the old Parisian pissoirs. Inside, one’s private parts are enclosed but otherwise it’s draughty and I’m clutching onto my bag at the same time. John says I clutch onto my bag with such paranoia that I begin to look like one! Afterwards, I can only get a squint at my anxious face, as the mirrors are tiny designer slivers.

John is ensconced in the waiting room with some women clutching their dear ‘petits chiens’ to their ample bosoms. The dogs are very well behaved and look as if they offer comfort to their owners. I think I may also have one in due course.

The seats on the TGV are black and white striped, with burgundy antimacassars. That is such an antiquated and mysterious word, conjuring up Victorian moustachioed men using pomade and leaving unsightly, greasy marks on the backs of armchairs – hence the need for an antimacassar. Today it probably fends off the unwashed and maybe a stray louse. We have a stylish lamp at our table for two. It’s dark yellow, the colour of my orange juice.

The landscape outside Lille continues flatly with rows of spindly trees flanking the autoroute. The agricultural taming of the countryside is both comforting and dispiriting. We pass the name ‘Arras’ on the faded side of a building and just tucked in behind in a small field, shaped like an unfurled scroll of paper and enclosed by trees, are lines of small, white gravestones, presided over by a cross.

Huge lorries (‘camions’ is a good word) roar along parallel to the train, with names emblazoned across them – Petrus, de Kraker, Parex Tanko, Kôkez, LeuLeu, Roussel, Charbonnier, Cobelfret, Peyrot, Gokbora … they are following signs to Cambrai, Valenciennes and the Somme.

The mournful sound of a mobile phone similar to that of the old black, bakelite telephones, reminds me of being brought up in a doctor’s house – that sound often signified illness. News of death, victory, defeat – something extreme and often bad. So I began to think of the soldiers in both world wars and their remains here – some of them left in the trenches – and how the countryside must have looked then. The trenches are dug in now but there are lumpy banks here and there and mute remains of DNA along with rusty ironmongery – all resting in the same mud.

And we, the survivors, are speeding through it on our way to the soft warmth (‘châleur’) of the south – pour chercher un petit séjour doux et ensoleillé contre la réalité de la vie humaine. We have a lot to thank those soldiers for who lost their lives that we might enjoy ours. Are we worth it? We have a duty to try, at least. ‘Tristesse’ is the word for ‘sadness’ in French.

We have now arrived at the airport – Charles de Gaulle – the station is a totally grey and metal landscape with walls of ‘waffelled’ concrete. Each square contains sixty four ‘waffles’ – so you can see how exciting it is to be here … ‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” – probably not. Where is the coffee trolley?

I see an orange and white Easyjet flying in at the end of a field of cabbages. I was contemplating the lugubrious face of one of my co-passengers. He resembles a bloodhound – a smartly shorn bloodhound with a moustache – and glasses. He is looking at the girl opposite with timid but intent interest. I listen in to the phone call of an American who is going to miss his plane connection and will be late for his operation. Then he finds out the surgeon’s plane has been cancelled. He is speaking in English but using a lot of ‘mercy buckets’ so obviously talking to a Frenchman. His bowel will have to wait.

Another man, reading ‘Science et Vie’ or similar – with very thick glasses and very thick black straight hair, cut pudding bowl style, disappeared for a time and his place was taken by a tall, bony, melancholy looking robot. Inexplicably, the first man has now reappeared – no sign of M. Melancholia. The girl opposite the bloodhound is playing cards with herself. I think the bloodhound would like to join in and try his luck but she is not cooperating – she is listening to music on her headphones.

It’s warm and comfortable in the carriage. ‘De quoi pensez-vous, Monsieur?’ Granny takes a Trip. ‘She always turns up to auditions in Hollywood town – she always turns up and she’s always turned down … (John lent me his I-Pod for a minute) …

I find reading on the train much easier than on the plane but as I was really excited about this trip from north to south, I spent lots of time gazing out of the window. I should really call this piece ‘Moi on the TGV’ – because I was interested in how my photos came out at speed. Also, John wrote a blog on the birthday festivities, so mine has to be a bit different.

When I was a child we used to travel by train from Manchester to Edinburgh every summer with my Scottish aunt for our ‘grandes vacances’ three week holiday by the sea. I only realise now how much my parents must have enjoyed waving us off from Manchester Piccadilly station! One of my favourite poems probably dates from that time as Auntie Jenny used to read to us as well as handing out all sorts of puzzles, guessing games e.g. how many cows would be in the next field? – first person to see John of Gaunt (a statue by the railway) – followed by the ‘Welcome To Scotland’ sign, which was not far away from a glimpse of the sea, leading to heightened hysteria as we ran up and down the corridor outside the six person railway carriage. Fellow passengers unamused, no doubt!

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches:
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever.

What would Robert Louis Stevenson have made of the TGV? Maybe faster but still very much the same experience. Somehow, I managed to capture a few of those glimpses as I sped by them at over 300 km/h. We’re certainly on our way south now…

This first photo turned out to be something quite different from what I thought I’d taken!

We’ve arrived and Mont St. Victoire is a powerful presence as we take an evening stroll through the vineyards.

The swimming pool looked inviting even at night time. This part of Provence was exceptionally hot during July and August and I think everyone is relieved that the temperature has fallen. For me, this is perfect as I struggle in the heat. Now it is cool both morning and evening and still about 25C during the day. By the field of spent lavender are thousands of tiny white snail shells which you can’t help but crunch underfoot. The grapes are already harvested.

Breakfast and dinner happen at a long table under the mulberry. There is a tree frog which we hear as we drink the local wine in the evening and an enormous and splendid spider outside the kitchen window. I will remember these days and the special light of Provence when the grey city rain brings me low.

As soon as I get back to London, I must buy a colourful umbrella. I did have a Japanese one covered in red roses and dewdrops, which I, very sadly,left on the bus. It was never handed in. Whenever I am in Richmond and it is raining I keep my eyes open for it – it was quite unusual. I would have to make enquiries, should I see it! Unfortunately, it could not bark or miaow in recognition …

As we walk through the vines, I am struck by the real darkness of the countryside at night. There are covert rustlings in the bushes, the chirrup of a late-to-bed, lone cricket. The air is soft as velvet on my face, the night sky is infinite and starry – I am glad to be here. Enter left, a charging, full blooded ‘sanglier” (wild boar). This is the sort of thing that happens when I am in a communing, meditative state with ‘nature’. Luckily, I am only hallucinating this time but next day we hear shots of ‘la chasse’ up in the hills.

Rested and much revived we meet up with our Norwegian friends next day for breakfast. A friend of John’s, Jørgen Randers, had a book come out about the same time as ‘The Zeronauts’. It’s called ‘2052’. I am determined to read it after the mesmerising talk he gave to us at dinner one evening. John has brought some copies of his own book too. Jan-Olaf has meanwhile devised an extraordinary trip for us all.

We drive over to another village. This disused railway track has been taken over by a French entrepreneur with an original idea – and cycling on rails means you don’t need to balance. Luckily, in our group there is a very sporty Norwegian chap who kindly takes over from me for the uphill part. Even the vertiginous viaduct we had to cross didn’t put me off! It was enormous fun.

Time for lunch at the French Foreign Legion. Mont St. Victoire is still with us! And then it’s home to the mas for some relaxation in the garden and by the pool before dinner appears – as if by magic! This is especially appreciated by me. All I have to do is anticipate what turns out to be a delicious repast – what could be better?!

The mountain does seem to be always in our sights. No wonder Cézanne painted it so often! It’s very powerful – like a large supine lioness that could flex its muscles at any moment.

There’s a small museum which we visited – mainly of men in different army uniforms. But I was taken by this dragon – the colour and the weave of the material …

The battle of St. George and the dragon shown in paintings, symbolizes the ongoing struggle of good and evil. Dragons always remain a threat, a powerful force ready to fight any new invader.

Late afternoon – and we are back at the mas discussing the state of the world by the swimming pool.

a dreamless sleep and our little gecko, who inhabits the ceiling …

A trip to the market in Aix is on the agenda. My camera was in my pocket and now I find it missing – just as I was about to take a market stall full of different types of mushrooms and fungi. I feel downcast but I buy a bag of ceps to take home. We find that the English bookshop, just a few steps down a side street off the Cours Mirabeau (almost opposite ‘Les Deux Garcons’ restaurant) – has expanded into two shops – the English one now being further down on the opposite side. I don’t see the cat that used to sit like royalty in the window but perhaps she is on mouse patrol.

John buys a large paperback containing 100 of Ray Bradbury’s short stories and I buy this. It looks good for the train ride home. There’s a small café in the bookshop and I console myself with a lemon and ginger tisane and a warm scone with jam. I need comforting! We meet up with the others for lunch and then decide to go and seek out Cézanne’s atelier, which I’ve never managed to get to before.

It’s uphill but worth the effort – the atelier has been left almost as it was when he died. There is a huge north facing window and various familiar objects are scattered around. One of his paintings, which is in The Courtauld Institute in London, features a rather podgy, swaggering, self important cherub with a number of various fruits lying on the floor around him – he stands here on a table, now looking rather grubby and a bit forlorn.

It is a strange feeling to think that many of our possessions outlive us – yet without us they have no validity in a way. Unless, of course, they are worth something financially and take on a new persona, are attractive or useful enough to be taken up by somebody else or strike a memory for those who were close to us. I remember going into a house where a much loved cousin had died and his pairs of glasses were on top of the piano he played every day. I found myself near to tears for a minute or two. Still, sentimentality aside, they would probably benefit somebody in a developing country, who would never know of their past life. Our optician collects unwanted pairs of spectacles to send them off to people who need and can’t afford to buy them. And the grubby cherub is doing a good job on the memory front. However, it is not one of my favourite paintings. The bombastic ‘putto’ has had his day.

Cézanne was a strange man. I think he was mostly in love with Mont St. Victoire, which he painted over and over again. He also loved Provence, where he was born – one of the paintings I like is a landscape to be found in The Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. A vast pine tree frames the foreground with a gaggle of provençal red tiled houses in the distance. The colours are vibrant and true and you feel the warmth of the red, dry earth reflected on your skin. And it has that magical ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ feel of being able to step through and into the painting. I have only seen reproductions but hope the original might come closer to home in an exhibition one day. It would also be nice to have it on my wall …

John lent me his camera but I only took one picture in Aix as I was devastated by the loss of my own small, battered one. We ambled slowly back to the car park. I climbed in to the back seat and there it was. It must have slipped out of my pocket as I got out.

The birthday festivities that evening were full of warmth and friendship. Twenty six of us sat under the mulberry tree and many heartfelt speeches were made and we all joined in the rousing Norwegian songs. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ was added for ‘the British’ (two of us) and for the Frenchman we had ‘Chevaliers de la table ronde, Goûtons voir si le vin est bon’ – un chanson I had last sung with gusto in our French classes at school! Surprisingly, I remembered it, word for word. It’s a good song to roll out. We ended up eating enormous slices of birthday cake and drinking whisky (not me!) by a roaring fire. Our Norwegian friends were off next week to the forest to shoot moose – an annual event.

We made our way for the last time through the vines well after midnight. A kind friend had offered us a lift to the station in the morning.

The TGV whooshes in right on time from Marseilles. We are on the top deck at a table for two. The train is busy, so we soon settle down with our books. This time we are bound for Paris.

These photos are not as dramatic as when we came down to Provence but they give a feeling of the lie of the land and that was one of the reasons that I wanted to come by train.

‘I should like to spend the whole of my life travelling, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend at home’. (William Hazlitt – Table Talk 1824).

‘If you look like your passport photo, then in all probability you need the journey’.
(Earl Wilson – Ladies’ Home Journal 1961) How very rude!

‘They say travel broadens the mind, but you must have the mind’ (G.K. Chesterton – ‘The Shadow of the Shark’1921) This is also rather rude but definitely hits the bull’s eye!

or could it be a giant caterpillar?

And, finally, some blue sky!

We are at the Gare du Nord with two hours wait before the Eurostar leaves. And what better than to cross the road to the ‘Terminus Nord’ restaurant – I love this brasserie where the waiters are adept at dealing with peoples’ luggage with no fuss, treat you royally, the food is delicious, eaten in ‘art nouveau’ surroundings and you don’t want to say ‘au revoir’ but you know you’ll be scampering back to Paris in no time.

Happy Birthday – Happy Days – When can we do it again?

END

This time last year we were starting out on our Lycian cruise on a Turkish gulet and I’ve been thinking how much I envy this year’s group – just beginning to enjoy it.

If you remember, I was suffering from extreme stiffness and pain around my waist, hips and thighs before we left London. I had been to the physiotherapist without success. It was as if I was a stick – with no flexibility from the waist down. A strong mix of paracetemol and codeine kept me going and since we didn’t need socks on board – it’s such a joy being in bare feet on wooden boards warmed by the sun – I didn’t have the problem of putting them on. Before we left home, the only way was to lie on the bed and struggle to reach my feet, which was time consuming and utterly infuriating. Like a beetle must feel on its back, legs flailing … But thank goodness I made the decision to go to Turkey rather than languish at home. It was interesting to find I could swim with no problem – the sea was salty and buoyant and this seemed to have the effect of freeing up my legs and back. Odd, nevertheless …

The doctor hadn’t been sure of what I was suffering from but when I got home with no improvement in the stiffness, she successfully diagnosed ‘polymyalgia rheumatica’, which the medical establishment think could be an auto immune problem. However, the cause is not known. There is pain, extreme stiffness and tenderness in large muscles and it mainly affects people over the age of sixty-five. Women are more likely to suffer from it than men. The muscles in your shoulders and arms can also be affected.

The doctor put me on steroids. Miracle cure! Within twenty four hours I could bend and move without pain. It was really unbelievable. Blood tests showed high sedimentation in my blood. Since then and for almost a year now on steroids, my sedimentation rate has plummeted and continued to fall on a regular basis. I am now on a low dosage of steroids and the doctor hopes that I will be able to stop them completely in about six months, should all continue well with the blood tests.

Since this happened, I have met two people with the same problem. A man and a woman. It’s a debilitating condition but, as my doctor says, rather a satisfying one for the medics, as when diagnosed, taking steroids results in the ‘take up your bed and walk’ syndrome, the result being miraculous within twenty four hours. The downside is that you need to keep taking steroids for some time but the disease then often burns itself out . In some cases, this doesn’t happen but being on a continuing low dose of steroids is much better than the alternative of being as inflexible as a ramrod and suffering with it. An image of the ‘Minister for Silly Walks’ comes to mind.

Amazingly, I did in some way manage to cope with it on the gulet. That was one of the best adventures and I would love to do it all over again.

END

Unilever, who have sponsored the Turbine Hall installations annually since 2000, invited us to the latest commission. Almost 30 million people have passed through the hall attracted by the artists’ various creations over these past years. Whereas the Turbine Hall once housed powerful turbine engines, the energy this year came from live interaction between people. Here was a huge public space for walking and talking and communicating – sometimes intimately – with strangers.

I always enjoy the walk along the Thames to the Tate, which takes about twenty minutes. I couldn’t see John when I got there but spent some time walking through the gardens in front, vaguely looking for him, and enjoying the warm evening sunshine. People were sitting, some in groups on the grass, some strolling to and from the riverside, some running.

There is something about a riverside with a path which brings out sociability in people. A sense of promenading just for pleasure maybe. I didn’t know anybody but I felt a sense of belonging – and that I could just sit down and enjoy that togetherness in peace, with my book for company. But, instead, I had to find John and go to the exhibition.

The interaction in the Turbine Hall was quite different from that outside – it was very pro-active. There were huge numbers of young people, many of them students, who came up and just engaged us in conversation. About what they were studying, how they came to be here in London, their opinions on politics, social issues, art, the environment, climate change … but often they started off by just talking about something quite intimate and personal – the sort of thing you wouldn’t immediately bring up with a stranger – and yet, in the context of what Tino Sehgal was trying to do with the Turbine Hall space, it was very successful.

You were immediately drawn into a stranger’s life and a sharing of the ups and downs of human life in general forged an immediate bond. I found it fascinating to listen to something significant that had happened in someone’s life I had never met before. It filled me with energy and enthusiasm both for this opportunity and also for these young, intelligent people trying to make sense of the world we now live in. They were open and friendly and inclusive. It was a very successful group experiment. It gave us tacit permission to talk openly to strangers without any pressure and I much appreciated being able to talk to young people in that way, as I don’t often have that opportunity.

As it got dark and time to leave, we were attracted by the lights bordering the river and decided to walk across the Millennium Bridge.

This is probably the last time we will be invited to the Turbine Hall installations as Unilever is finishing its sponsorship and the Turbine Hall will now be closed until the new extension of the Tate has been built. These visits have been stimulating and very enjoyable and I will miss them – and remember them with great pleasure.

The person I will remember most sitting next to at dinner is Miles Young of Ogilvy and Mather. He is one of the most entertaining and lovely, warm hearted men – with terrific style – that I’ve ever met.

END