The Out of Towners

Should have Gone Fishin'

A few weeks ago my husband and I celebrated ten long, I mean, ten happy years of marriage. In honour of this momentous occasion (and given the amounts of folks barely making it through ten months of wedded bliss, I think we’re doing okay) we decided to treat ourselves to a wee city break, sans weans.

We duly set about organising the big event. Rainman had air miles to cash in – he reckoned that we had enough to get to either Paris or Chicago (although I’m pretty sure that one of those places is much closer than the other). We also swithered with having ourselves a wee Hebridean adventure…but No, there was one place – one place that filled me with a kind of longing I haven’t had a long time…LONDON, BABY. And yes, we did have enough air miles to get there (and back) for next to nowt. So, obviously husband was delighted. Free flights booked, Rainman reckoned he could get us a cheeky wee deal at a *nice* hotel – and one that was on the Piccadilly Line[1] so that we could go right there, from Heathrow without having to bother with that old Heathrow express nonsense. No, no, no – we were going to Tube it like real life Londoners do. Job done, we started to pack up our stuff. Obviously I’m taking some artistic licence with actual timelines here. We didn’t just decide to go and pack a case – we have three children to find babysitters for – people had to be cajoled, promises made and bribes accepted, but you don’t really need to hear about the three months of organisation that went into a three day trip.

Our flight to London was fairly uneventful – I’m quite an excited flyer as I don’t get to go to places out with a fifty mile radius of my house all that often, so I tend to get quite giddy at the thought of flying. Actually, the thought of the airport’s WH Smith and duty free is what really makes me giddy, that coupled with a whole hour of relatively uninterrupted reading in the middle of the day…My husband is a very seasoned traveller however, and he finds my constant questioning of airport etiquette and my need to be at the airport a good couple of hours before the flight departs really quite upsetting. So there I was – my London wardrobe all packed (I had to buy new clothes for going to London as I didn’t want to appear like a Hick from Hicksville in my usual dungarees and straw boater combo) – itinerary all planned (The Globe, Madame Tussaud’s, The Comedy Store, Covent Garden, The Tate Modern – all the high spots). And suddenly (well, not suddenly, we were flying from Aberdeen so it was about an hour, an hour and a quarter?) there it was – London; in all her glory. All metropolitan and huge and, well, just like you see on the telly – the Gherkin and the Houses of Parliament. For a Hick from Hicksville, it was all very, very exciting.

Our first stop was to be a trip to the Globe theatre and a visit to to the Tate Modern. Handily enough they’re quite close to each other and, handier still, they were quite close to our hotel. Rainman was delighted – only £2.50 off our Oyster cards! The Globe was splendid. It was “Sam’s Day” when we visited, so there were lots of free events on for visitors (once you had paid to get in, obviously – this is London, baby). The day is held in honour of Sam Wanamaker, the American actor who was inspired to set up the foundation that saw to the rebuilding of the Globe, but sadly died a few years before it actually opened. “Sam’s Day” involved lots of educational tours – that would have made great teaching material, but would have probably bored Rainman to the point of suicide and he had indulged me quite a lot by agreeing to go The Globe in the first place so I thought it best not to push my luck too much.

Our foray to The Globe was to be topped off by a trip to the Tate Modern. I was, I admit, a bit apprehensive. And after a few minutes in the building it became clear that I was right to be apprehensive. In fact, apprehension was quickly replaced by mild panic and fear. Has anyone ever been thrown out of the Tate Modern? Would Rainman be the first? You see, he might not know art – but he knows what he likes and there wasn’t much in the Tate Modern that he took for either art or stuff that he liked. Monet – he liked. Mark Rothko – hmmm, not so much.

Waterlillies – obviously.

Untitled – or leftover paint?

In fact, so enraged was he by the displays and installations on show that he challenged the positioning of the Rothko next to the Monet:

Rainman: Now, that (pointing furiously to the Monet) that is quite clearly quite a nice picture of a pond with lilies on it. That, I understand. That makes sense.

Me: But you have to admit that there is something really pleasing about the juxtaposition of colour in the Rothko (Aye right, more along the lines of – “shut up, shut up – you’re going to get us thrown out for being hicks…”)

Rainman: That… (pointing steadily at the Rothko and refusing to acknowledge the worried stares of real life Londoners and artistic types around us) That…is just leftover paint. Poor bugger probably only finished the first coat and some idiot came in and took it to a gallery before it was even finished.

Me: Let’s just go, people are staring.

Rainman: I want my £3 pound back. (The princely sum donated on entering).

To add insult to injury, he then discovered that whilst we had been inside pondering the wonders of Modern Art, the Red Arrows had been outside giving their annual Queenly flyover.

He’s always wanted to see the Red Arrows.

[1] It may have been the Piccadilly Line – it could have been the bloody Branston Pickle line for all I cared, navigating and map reading are not my strong point.