Robyn

So …

I know this isn't Robyn; it's my Mum.
We are wandering along The Embankment, as I do on my normal walk to work, except we are heading to Westminster Abbey to meet Robyn.

And here's the Abbey.
In front of which a taxi (disappointingly not pink, Ame) disgorges Robyn's Mother-in-Law, Elizabeth; Robyns' Daughter No.2 and Robyn herself!
Woohoo!

These three rather cute butts belong to: (from left to right):
Daughter No.2, Robyn and Dive.

And these four rather cute fronts belong to: (again, from left to right):
Elizabeth, Dive's Mum, Robyn and Daughter No.2.
Doing the touristy bit as Americans are wont to do in front of Parliament.

Above Daughter No.2's head proudly stands one of my heroes, Ollie Cromwell, facing the Parasite house, sword in hand, just in case the monarchy gets any uppity ideas.

The Abbey's ass is much prettier than its face.
Much like Dive.
Hey ho.

And here IS a pretty face. The lovely Robyn, marching along the riverside toward Tate Britain.

Unfortunately, we chose places to meet where cameras aren't allowed, so there are no shots of us in the Abbey, where we had a lovely time in Poets' Corner, found lots of fun people's graves and discovered a French Horn sitting in Handel's lap (symbolic of what, I wonder).

More touristy posing to make up for the lack of photographs of Robyn and Dive standing over David Livingstone's grave (well we presumed it was his … sorry) and Elizabeth joking that she remembered him from school.
Or of Dive (the man who irons tea towels and boxer shorts) complaining about all the dust on the statuary inside the Abbey.
I may well break in there one night and clean it.
Also there's some beautiful stained glass for Peahen to check out, especially the peacock blue window with Oscar Wilde's memorial in it.

We also discover that some poor guy named Vincent, who had led a sufficiently honourable and upright life to warrant being buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey has now had a coffee shop built over him. The counter actually cuts his gravestone in half so we cannot discover his surname.
Ah, Mammon … Welcome to the House of God …

And so on to Tate Britain, one of Dive's regular lunchtime haunts (my office is only a couple of hundred yards away).

We have to skip the modern art because Mum only stands in the middle of the room and moans loudly about how she can't understand any of it.
In fact we do pass a Blomberg by accident and even that sets her off.
Thank goodness Jake and Dinos's "Machines for Living" exhibit has been removed … all those prosthetic genitals and rubber chickens would have produced apoplexy.

If you ever need to find me on a rainy lunchtime, a good place to look is in front of Millais' Mariana and Ophelia, which hang together side by side and which I have loved all my life. Being able to visit them daily and spend time with them is so much cheaper than buying them.

Or down in the Clore Galley, in the little room with Turner's late and unfinished "light" paintings.

Oh, and in the Tate café you can get miso salmon on a bed of wild rice with wasabi dressing for under a fiver and a good selection of green teas.
Boffo!
I eat that.
The girls order quiche … WHY?

Robyn and Elizabeth outside the Tate with Dive trying to look tall by standing on a step.

Smile!

How cheeky is that grin, young Robyn?

And so, reluctantly and all too soon, we wave Robyn off in a taxi, back to her hotel.
Rats.

But we did have a lovely time. I only wish it could have been longer.
And no we are not touching one another's bums in this photo!