City, Country, Culture, Cake

Last week was something of a whirlwind! Following on from the birthday, I squeezed in annual blood tests and a dementia café before dashing to London for an overnight visit.

The Youngest has just returned from 2 months of skiing in Chamonix and had a few days free before taking up a new position. To be honest Mister E and I had been concerned lest she'd bother to return, believing she'd taken to retirement life just a little too easily, not to mention nearly four decades early. However, she duly did and we met at King's Cross for her to usher me to the Tate Modern. Ever since I suffered theft on the underground, the next generation seems somewhat over-zealous in chaperoning their country cousin mamma through the sites and streets of our crowded capital.

Presumably because of the lecture I received on the pitfalls of taking either phone or credit card from my pocket, we made it in one piece into the vast cavernous hall at the centre of the gallery. We had decided to visit the Tracey Emin exhibition entitled A Second Life. Apart from the heat and throngs of people, it was everything we had expected: raw, sordid, visceral, personal and brilliant. The celebrated My Bed was there but as part of the biographical journey depicted it was simply perfect, no longer a source of controversy and debate.

We lingered inside over the view of St Paul's Cathedral before I was escorted to Blackfriars' Station and passed into the custody of the Eldest for the journey to his house and a reunion with the grandchildren, who. touch wood, were in perfect health and for once appear to have ceded no cough, cold or dreadful virus to me.

As culture goes, the next day was probably a little tame although I did see some ballet. This was not, however, at The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden but instead inside a rather chilly, church hall in North London where Grandotty is learning the rudiments in a fun and playful manner. Moreover my daily dose of city art was limited to a stroll along the Rainbow Tunnel, resplendent on this occasion in pastel colours, on my way back to King's Cross and the evening train journey northwards.

I reached home in time for bed and a long sleep. Forget the effect of country air, tramping city streets can have the same impact. Unfortunately the recovery period allowed wasn't quite long enough because the following morning I was signed up to a cupcake decorating class. It may not be creativity, Tracey Emin style, but there's a certain whimsicality in buttercream and cake that the WI might tell you substitutes for fine art, at least in rural communities. All participants were certainly proud of their masterpieces. Unlike with paintings, textiles and sculpture, we got to eat our creations too!