Katie And Dive Do London Pt.7

Oh, woe is me!
Alas and alack for today is the final post in our Katie series and I have to bite back the tears as she heads off to Paris and eventually back to San Francisco and home to Berkeley, taking the sunshine - and a little piece of the hearts of everyone who has met her - back to that beautiful city on the bay.

Yesterday left us walking hastily away from my office toward the river, where we find Tate Britain, our last gallery of the day.

Much to Katie's bemusement, Martin Creed's latest work is still going on in the main hall (and will be for a few weeks more yet).
"Work no.850" involves an athlete running the length of the gallery every thirty seconds.
Supposedly some kind of link to the 2012 Olympics and the silly idea of making it a "Cultural Olympics" to draw in more tourists, the first day saw all the famous athletes and medal winners from Beijing hurtling headlong past the press cameras; now we are down to the hopefuls for 2012 and the gallery is considerably less crowded, so we are disappointed in our expectation of seeing a runner smashing full tilt into a crowd of visitors.
Hey ho.

We are really here to see the "late works" room in the Turner galleries but why waste the opportunity of having a good poke around?
Aha!
Katie immediately spots a mosaic and - as photography is not allowed, we sneak off non-flash photos when nobody is looking.

I make a point of introducing Katie to the creepy Cholmondeley Sisters, one of the strangest and most disturbing paintings ever; and hanging next to it of course, Robyn's famous "That man's got no trousers on!" painting.

Millais' Mariana and Ophelia - which usually hang side by side - are out on loan at the moment, which is a pity as they are my companions on many a rainy lunchtime, but there is plenty more to marvel at.
For one thing, Katie has never seen any Gwen John paintings until today.

After a good look around we head for the wing that houses the Clore Gallery where the Turners are kept.
Upstairs there is a cute little interactive exhibition illustrating Turner's techniques and use of colour and a room full of paper and pencils where you are invited to copy Turner's drawings and display them.

Here is Katie on the upstairs balcony above the main Turner room, trying to stay still as it is pretty dark in here and the exposure takes ages without flash.

This is a little bit of my favourite room at Tate Britain. It is hung with a selection of Turner's late and unfinished "mad" paintings; those glorious attempts of the batty, half-blind old codger to "paint light".

Everybody who visits London should see this room and marvel at the sheer intensity of Turner's vision.
Unfortunately we didn't have time when Mme and MB visited, but I recall "Eustacia", Elizabeth and mum resting their weary legs, flaked out on that seat while Robyn and myself explored the paintings and shared a little bit of the magic of this wonderful place.

And now it is "chucking out time". Katie and I have outstayed our welcome and we exit the gallery beside the Thames as the late afternoon sun glints off the Spook House (MI6 HQ; somewhere in there is Miss. Moneypenny's office).

Looking east, the Eye is bathed in warm sunshine and the river - for once - looks something other than its usual fœtid brown.
It is such a lovely evening that we decide to wander slowly back toward the West End and hunt for a restaurant in the back-streets of Soho.

Just along the river is this little garden beside the Palace of Westminster where the evening sun is lighting up the gorgeous sandstone of Victoria Tower with a beautiful, buttery glow.
I swear I didn't see that girl in the miniskirt until I downloaded the photos. Honest!

While we are here I simply must sneak into the corner of the garden and check to see if I was hallucinating the last time I was here.
Woohoo!
It is still there!
La Vache!
I've yet to figure this one out … What on earth is a statue of a cow doing in Victoria Tower Garden? And why is it dressed in the robes of the House of Lords?
It seems happy enough to be there so we leave it to its ruminations.

By this time the day is drawing to an end and the Eye and Westminster Bridge are suffused with the warmth of the dying light of an autumn evening.

Katie calls out "That's The Burghers Of Calais, isn't it?" and heads for the statue by Victoria Tower.
As she gets closer her smile broadens …
"I know my Rodin!"
And she is right, of course. What a smartypants!

The Burghers do look pretty wretched and miserable awaiting execution, having sacrificed themselves to save their townsfolk, but then they weren't to know at that moment that Philippa of Hainault would spare their lives.
Rodin apparently never completed the second statue "The Burghers Of Calais Celebrate Their Reprieve By Getting Totally Shitfaced And Dancing Like Your Dad."

Katie and Dive head back yet again across Parliament Square and on into St.James's Park, stopping briefly to watch the sun set over the Parasite House.
The pelicans are already asleep on their island and as night falls around us it is time to hit the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus and find somewhere to have dinner.

Wending our curious way through the narrow, darkened streets and alleys, past shouty, singing drunks and through thronging crowds of party people, we check out the plethora of international cuisines available in the maze of back-streets that is Soho; that ancient den of iniquity and … er … lapdancing clubs where all the good little restaurants tend to cluster.

Head waiters leap from entrances as soon as we start reading their menus but we resist their blandishments and decide to plump for the Mumbai in Denman Street.

Katie has never had "proper Indian" as we call the Bangladeshi cuisine that constitutes most of England's national dishes.
The Raj lasted for so long that Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi cuisine and culture is as much a part of England as steak and kidney pie and London buses.

This - sadly - is my last photo of Katie (sob).
Here we have just enjoyed a yummy starter of prawn puri; a deliciously spiced dish served up on that most buttery of puffy, fried breads with a cucumber raitha.

We avoid the stupidly hot dishes as this is Katie's first foray into the sub-continent and she chooses a prawn Madras while I have an excellent fish bhuna; which we accompany with mouth-watering side dishes of sag aloo, bindhi and brinjal bhajis and sag paneer, plus beautifully sweet pewshwari naan and basmati rice.
Oh, and Indian Kingfisher lager, of course!

And we talk and talk and talk …

At last it is time to go home and we catch a tube at Piccadilly Circus that will carry Katie safely back to Bloomsbury and her hotel.
We say farewell at Holborn tube station with hugs and smiles and a promise to meet up in Paris this time next year …
… and then she is gone.
Whisked away toward St.Pancras …
A sad Dive walks the escalators toward the Central Line on my way to catch the late train home.
I sigh and smile at all the happy memories of the past two days but it's going to be a long, cold and lonely journey back to my empty house.

Katie will still be in London until the following afternoon, meeting Rose from Canterbury Daily Photo for a meal and a trip on the Eye.

Old Dive sits on the train in the dark, smiling as I flick through the photos on my little screen.

The day after next, with Katie back in Paris, Rose sends me a wonderful present, entitled "Katie Reading Dive's Blog".

Here is Katie out to lunch with Rose in Covent Garden, reading my first "Katie And Dive Do London" post on Rose's iPhone.

It has been a marvellous couple of days. We have walked several thousand miles and enjoyed so many galleries, exhibitions and mosaics and done so much sightseeing we have almost worn our eyes out.

Most importantly we have become friends and next autumn in Paris I know we shall strengthen that friendship.

A million thanks, Katie!
See you in Paris!