The 8am Sunday work shift was spent overlooking the office window at South Lambeth Road as the Vintage Car Run headed en route to Brighton.
It’s one of the annual highlights of living along South Lambeth Road. Greenwich may get the marathon, but we get the beautiful old bone shakers.
OH how I miss the Concorde personal flyover every afternoon 🙁
Work tools were downed after breakfast. I cycled through Brixton on my own vintage Mini Moulton en route to the lovely lido.
My annual membership is up for renewal soon. One length into the 9.9 tepid water temperature and I had decided not to renew.
Steady the buffers, etc.
I emerged eleven lengths later wanting to sign up for another year right now.
I managed to escape the Rubber Invasion that rocked up at Lake Brockwell mid-morning. This was my signal to leave.
I took a detour on the way back to base with some light weights at the Larkhall Park outdoor gym.
It’s bloody brilliant; popular as well.
I had a tight turnaround with a luncheon meet up with an old ITN pal in town.
I crossed at Waterloo and made the rendez vous at Somerset House.
The Christmas tree was having the final touches to the directions ahead of the opening of the ice rink.
The old ITN pal and I had agreed to have a shifty around Hannah Perry’s GUSH exhibition in the New Wing.
I rather enjoyed the motors that vibrated large sheets of metal; the video loop of Gawd knows what I could have done without.
I told the old ITN pal that I was bored. He was cool with that.
The old work mantra is to (i) undermine management at all times and (ii) make genuine friendships that will survive the working relationship.
I have long since ditched one of these; the old ITN pal wasn’t offended by my dismissive reaction to the art.
He then suggested that we headed down The Strand for the Vinyl Factory’s… video loop exhibition.
180 The Strand is a beast of a brutalist building. Down amongst the basement was 21 [TWENTY ONE] video loops of questionable quality.
Art can be bloody hard work.
I liked the irony of the old ITN basement pal and I back together in a basement once again.
One of the exhibition spaces had the video projected on to the ceiling. To make the appearance more appealing the floor space was covered in beds.
The old ITN pal and I agreed that bed sharing was not going to happen.
I paused, not wanting to recline with my head on a pillow that had been used by other reluctant art lovers.
I thought how Daniel Cruz Tizon might have handled the hygiene situation.
I remained upright on the bed.
We slurped some coffee along The Strand and then went our separate ways.
I cycled through the West End en route to TCR. I realised late last night that the new MacBook Air ‘aint gonna like my reliance on USB’s.
Job’s a good ‘un.
It was a little strange being in this part of town on a Sunday afternoon. It use to be my regular haunt doing the street photography thing.
I didn’t hang around today. I crossed the river at Vauxhall and cycled on for some more art.
I wanted a peak at the Martin Eder exhibition at the ACE Newport Street Gallery.
Peak would be the right word.
The gallery assistant warned me that there was some explicit sexual content within the exhibition.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Sunday evening was spent catching up on school work, and then a late, late work shift with the telly client.
That was a day, etc.