Barbie

Last week back to the Barbican to hear Evgeny Kissin play Beethoven. Three sonatas: Op.13; Op31. No.2; and, Op.53. Plus Op.35 to fill out the first half, plus at least three encores, one of which was a bagatelle.

Cycle rack

A cold evening, with the moon high in the east and what I took to be Venus much lower in the west. On platform 1 (for Balham), reminded by the large cycle rack underneath the flats across the tracks, of the far off days when I used to park my bicycle in the tunnel to the platforms from what was then the rather smaller ticket hall, along with perhaps a score of others. A practise which I gave up after not many years, I forget exactly why. Maybe I got fed up with have to bother with batteries for cycle lights once a fortnight, the form at the time.

Somewhere near me on the train to Balham someone was munchy away on something from a plastic bag. I puzzled as to why the combination of munching noises from the mouth and crackling noises from the bag were so irritating, with the vinegary smell being only a small part of the irritation. Over stimulation of the relevant parts of the nervous system, tuned to pick up suspicious rustles in the jungle undergrowth, rather than sustained white noise (as it were)?

While on the tube I puzzled about what looked like an ornamental bulldog clipped to the bottom of a young lady's coat. It turned out to be a hair grip - which I only worked out when she put it back in her hair.

Somehow managed to take the wrong exit out of the tube station, but got myself sorted out. And so onto Silk Street, where the Bullingdon stand, on this occasion, as it should be, was half full. I forget to check whether that was still the case on exit - but given that the Barbican cloak room is not usually very busy, needed for helmet and such, maybe one of these days I will be trying an evening ride from Waterloo.

For a major venue, I thought £9 for a large Jameson and a programme, served by a pleasant young lady, was very reasonable. With a free glass of water thrown in for the warfarin.

Quite of lot of well dressed ladies about, some fur and quite a lot of what I took to be Russians. Hall full, maybe two or three thousand of us. On my left, I had a travelling Frenchman with ten years in Tokyo and some smaller number of years in London under his belt. But his wife and children had recently returned to France, presumably to proper school, so it was not clear how things stood. Don't think he was very clear either. And on my right, a slow moving old gentleman for the first half, a programme page turning lady for the second half. Moderately irritating. But seat H61 was very good, about level with the piano, hands fairly visible, not too near.

The programme

Kissin made a big sound, which sounded good in this big hall from where I was sitting. And somehow the size of the hall made the various silences even more impressive. The piano seemed to have a rather harsh timbre (if that is the right word), but one which seemed to suit the style of the pianist and may have been a function of playing very loudly, rather than tuning. A pianist who had been a child prodigy and now looked rather younger than his fifty odd years. Something of the showman about him. Played from memory.

Sonatas all excellent, and while I could have done without the Variation and Fugue and the encores, dropping the first mentioned would have made the interval a bit awkward, either rather early or rather late. I slipped out after the second encore. Enough was enough!

Turned up by Google from the Guardian website

Some odd visual effects on the wooden walls, which I thought were wearing well for their fifty or more years. I liked the sculpted inner walls (left in the snap above) - with the odd effects seeming to be visual echoes from the holes (right in the snap above) which were almost boxes. Perhaps they were.

Caught the 2224 from Balham with about 30 seconds to spare. Which was a result as it was quite late enough. And on which I learned from my telephone about the cuttlefish of reference 1, posted earlier today.

Moving lights one

Moving lights two

Curious effect with the moving lights of the indicator board at the end of the carriage, which appeared as if they were arranged in groups of ten (or so) columns, with thin vertical lines separating the groups. Which the telephone quite failed to capture, with the image on the screen showing a wavering, thin horizontal line in the middle of the lights and the snaps just a bit confused, as above. Must look for the thin verticals again tonight.

For once in a while, no taxis on arrival at Epsom. Perhaps trains from Victoria don't count as proper commuter trains, proper trains worth meeting. A wait of perhaps five minutes. But worth it as the driver turned out to know all about Balham and Tooting, even down to once famous places like the late Horse & Groom, aka Slag & Handbag. A place where I used to dine occasionally, perhaps twenty five years ago now. The sort of working man's dining room which once used to be common. With a particularly memorable dinner one Ash Wednesday, when the Irish landlady had arranged for a large cod to be delivered from Billingsgate. As a Brit latecomer, I got the tail end - but decent of her, as it might otherwise have been her dinner.

Moon very high on arrival, seemingly overhead, but I dare the new astrolabe would rule otherwise. See reference 2 and elsewhere.

Cold pork, brown bread and Calvados for supper. Pork and bread good separately, but white bread undoubtedly better than brown for cold meat sandwiches.

Reference 1: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/02/intelligent-feeding-of-cuttlefish.html.

Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/02/astrolabe.html.