A wet evening, with two folding umbrellas in our baggage, although only one got deployed. Not clear why I took my sun hat along (visible top left); certainly useful against low flying winter suns, but that was hardly an issue on this occasion.
A short train from Epsom, which meant that it was pretty full by the time we got to London. A young lady banging on to her telephone about her boss substituted for the footballing youths of the previous outing, banging on which meant that she did not draw breath before she got off at Clapham Junction. Additionally, we had two young men discussing their football club. The one who appeared to be the manager was in banging on mode too - but I was reminded what a thankless business running amateur groups can be. My brother, who used to run small amateur orchestras in his time, used to get rather fed up about the amount of input needed - and the lack of support, recognition or thanks from others. But at least he got to choose the programme.
Further entertainment on the tube to Oxford Circus in the form of five young ladies in full war paint and well revved up - this being not long after 1800 on a Saturday evening. Some very high heels and quite a lot of flesh on display - and one of them had her credit card sticking out of a back pocket, which provided me with an entrée.
Still raining when we got to Oxford Circus, so that meant picnic at the corner of Cavenish Square was off and picnic in the Beckstein Room was on. But they can't really complain as I nearly always buy a glass of their quite expensive, if quite satisfactory wine.
Hall full and decorated with handsome pink flowers, large anthuriums, small unknown.
The Mozart was excellent.
Refreshment in the Cock & Lion. Busy with overseas football people, possibly Italian.
The Shostakovich was excellent too. Another favourite which does not always work, but it certainly did on this occasion. Lots of bits of piano which I felt I was hearing for the first time. An unusual but effective encore in the form of a repeat of one of the middle movements.
Quartet properly turned out. First violin unusually still. None of the florid body language you sometimes get - and there was more visible emotion from the page turner. While the first violin didn't even turn a hair when his page turned over spontaneously towards the end of the Shostakovich.
Busker with a keyboard outside John Lewis; a higher standard than usual and I nearly dropped something in his hat.
Entertained on the tube by a poster advertising something called POW, the people at reference 4, the ultimate in web meetings. I was too old to get the hang of conference calls on telephones and I didn't get on very well on the few occasions I was in a full-on video conferencing suite - so I don't suppose I would be much cop at these either. And just think how much all these young people are missing by not doing proper face to face meetings any more, with chairmen, minutes and matters arising. Full performance. But perhaps they get just as much of a bang out of their own full performances.
Then at Wimbledon the long vanished yellow flowers reappeared on the side of a town-bound train, although, sadly, it was not convenient to collect the evidence with my telephone. See the postscript to reference 1. Perhaps they only ever did the one carriage.
PS: tweet: coal tits in the garden again this afternoon.
Reference 1: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/02/yellow-flowers.html.
Reference 2: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2017/11/bacon-hunt.html. The last recorded hearing of the quintet. Lots of new bits on this occasion too.
Reference 3: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/05/persian-grub.html. The last recorded hearing of the Borodin Quartet, an outfit which has been in continuous existence - with various changes of personnel - since 1945 - when they used to rehearse with Shostakovich himself.
Reference 4: https://www.powwownow.co.uk/.
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