The truth is, I needed a new pair of shoes. It has become quite a serious issue with me this past week. Enter any high street shop in my town and ask for anything larger than a size 11 and watch as the staff back away, glancing at their colleagues in fear at the very mention of the mythical "shoe-size-that-must-not-be-named". By their reactions you'd think asking for a pair of shoes in a size 12 would inadvertently result in summoning Cthulhu or some other cosmic monstrosity from the depths of the Topman changing rooms. Anyway, where was I going with all this...
Allow me to deviate from my usual blog entries about the writing process and instead regale you with the random events that took place during my afternoon in London. I'm sure there will be something related to writing somewhere in all this, but let's get on with it...
* * *
The National Gallery was at the top of my list of places to visit (disregarding my search for shoes). I often feel a sense of peace when exploring the galleries and examining each of the paintings, taking a note of the artists' names so I can search them up upon my return home. Even standing outside in Trafalgar Square, with my back to Nelson's Column, I find myself impressed by just how majestic the building, almost as if it is a remnant of classic antiquity.
Sadly the sight was spoiled somewhat by a blight of mimes - one of which was dressed as Yoda, oddly enough - resting upon long canes while sitting cross-legged in midair. I'll be honest, it took me far longer than it should have to work out the secret to that trick; initially I thought they must have amazing upper-body strength to keep themselves suspended for hours on end in that position. Yes, common sense was never my strongest attribute...
The paintings themselves are still a source of wonder to me. More often than not I can spend hours studying the detail that has gone into each, all the while attempting to comprehend how they managed to create such beautiful masterpieces. Considering I know next to nothing about the craft of painting and what it entails, all I can do is provide my own interpretation of what I see on the canvas, and the thoughts and emotions they invoke for me. There is one painting in particular, by Thomas Gainsborough, that would remain in my thoughts for a long time and eventually go on to form the basis of my current short story. Allow me to explain how...
(Cornard Wood, near Sudbury, Suffolk
1748, Thomas Gainsborough)
What I see in this picture is a glimpse of the English countryside almost three centuries ago. If you went to that location now you'd either find this forest and the glimpse of distant fields bisected by a motorway, or a generic housing estate dominating the horizon. This painting offers a glimpse of a time long ago, and while it may no longer exist in the same way that it is depicted here, this landscape has forever been immortalised on canvas, as if the very soul of that place has been captured by the artist and exists within the painting. No doubt anyone with a modicum of knowledge regarding art will scoff at my interpretation and state how wrong I am, but that is my personal thoughts on the matter.
Sometimes I wonder what other people think when they see these paintings. I guess for the time being I will never know, considering the only other person in the immediate vicinity was slumped against a chair in the centre of the gallery, fast asleep for the entire time I was there. Never mind, then!
* * *
My final say on the gallery: there are signs on the entrance that state "no photographs". Naturally, everyone took photographs. I think the staff should take advantage of this phenomenon and place a giant label on the big money box in the entrance, stating "whatever you do, do NOT donate!" Would it work, I wonder?
* * *
Most of the places on my list to visit were within walking distance. Others required travelling by tube. Climbing those eternal escalators are tedious at the best of times, without the hundred or so posters on either wall advertising nothing but bottles of Strongbow. Halfway up it became almost hypnotic. Three quarters of the way I could have sworn there was some grand cider conspiracy afoot, to lull unwary tourists into the nearest bar. By the time I reached the top I was rather surprised I wasn't tipsy just from the influence...
* * *
The bargain bookshop in Moorgate is a strange place. It possesses an almost magnetic force that draws me to it the moment I step off the train at Liverpool Street. Many times I have found some wondrous treasures there that I would have dismissed elsewhere. It was with some pleasure that I approached the shop, with a long list of books that I knew they had in stock and that would provide me with enough reading material to last me until next century.
The damn place was closed. Closed! The nerve of it all. I could see the books through the window. So close, but so far away. With a heavy heart I proceeded onwards, with the knowledge that there was a giant Foyles bookshop waiting for me in Shaftsbury Avenue that was bound to be open.
* * *
I made a decision to walk most of my journey. There are so many interesting and strange sights to observe when you mingle with the crowds that you would otherwise miss when travelling by tube. Quaint little cafes that served up dinky little cups of coffee no larger than a thimble (I know, absurd!). Restaurants stretched in every direction, from the most expensive where I did not dare glance at the prices, to not so nice establishments that would probably render you comatose with food poisoning if you so much as walked through the front door. And the street musicians! Some were great, while others howled like banshees as they hammered away at out-of-tune acoustic guitars. It was an experience, to say the least.
All this walking made me feel like one of my favourite writers, Charles Dickens, who was known to traverse the streets of London in his day and observe those around him. The only difference being that he was a master at writing, whereas my talent is more or less non-existent. And I don't dress nearly as suave as he did. Nor do I have his epic beard, or his encyclopaedic knowledge of London's streets. Seriously, if it weren't for the maps posted on every street corner I would be halfway to Paris by now and still be none the wiser. Okay, so I guess I'm nothing like Dickens. Bit of a silly comparison, really...
* * *
The ever-elusive muse/shoes notwithstanding, I knew with certainty that I would not escape the city without enough books to fashion my own raft and float down the Thames. Forbidden Planet was on my next stop, but as chance would have it I took a wrong turning and ended up on the same street as Foyles bookshop (totally a coincidence, I assure you. Probably). It is a rallying cry to all readers out there, the promise of pretty much every book that you can imagine. Needless to say I couldn't wait to look around. I approached the entrance...
... only to discover that the shop had closed down.
Closed down!
This isn't even that funny anymore. Whitewashed windows and signs recommending I go elsewhere. Disappointment! Sheer soul-crushing disappointment. Words cannot even describe it. Waxing frustration for a good minute or two, I weighed up my options and, dejected, made my way to Forbidden Planet...
... only to pass the Foyles Bookshop that was open next door. Next door. As in, next door to the Foyles bookshop that had closed down. Now I know how those guys from Inception felt. I must admit that I was overcome with relief, but I did feel rather foolish. Thankfully I cast aside my confusion and bought some books. Books! Books everywhere! Books as far as the eye could see. Books I've been meaning to read for a while now. I have a lot of reading to do...
In truth this picture is a bit of of a lie. I later had a look in the Waterstones in Trafalgar Square and picked up Heart of Darkness and The Bloody Chamber. Why I didn't get them while I was in Foyles, you ask? I cannot answer that; it is another mystery for the ages.
* * *
My adventures are nearing the end. I completed my quest and found a rather nice pair of shoes in Topman. The staff there had no fear of summoning Cthulhu at the mere mention of size 12 shoes, despite my fears to the contrary, so all's well on that front. Not only that but I found a fedora. That's right, a fedora. At least I think it's a fedora. It certainly looks like a fedora. Every so often I forget that I am not Philip Marlowe: private investigator, and it's during these moments that I end up buying fancy hats. I shall wear it with pride, damnit!
* * *
I am writing this during a storm.
The rain lashes the gardens beyond the windows of my room.
Lightning sears the sky.
A perfect atmosphere for stories.
* * *
Forbidden Planet is one of the most amazing places ever. They are currently celebrating Batman's 75th anniversary and the store windows are plastered with scenes from the comics. I do have a love for Batman comics and was on the verge of picking up a copy of Arkham Asylum (the graphic novel, not the video game) but changed my mind at the last minute. The art style is something to behold; both unsettling and disturbing in the way that it reflects the insane minds of Arkham's super criminals that Batman faces on a regular basis. Plus it was drawn by the same guy that designed the Sandman covers - a series that I love. Maybe I'll pick up a copy of Arkham Asylum some day...
* * *
It was a good day. Visiting the National Gallery reignited the waning enthusiasm I was suffering from with regards to my latest short story, and it felt good stocking up on books for the rest of this years' reading. Things are progressing rather nicely.
