and yet explicit, in the acceptance of civic channels, resulting in a pedestrian smoothness. Such helpful hand signals and zebra crossings painted without Africaâs wild undulations, the Bobbyâs nylon sleeves of special iridescent dye; immensely practical. Possibilities and maybes, perhaps, actually: almost a gaiety.
Let us stick to the facts. The hotel was a converted wing of the British Museum, in the WC2 district of public lavatories and map shops. Pedestrian pairs consulted maps, many wearing the nylon parka and glasses, looking up like stunned mullets at street signs. Americans sat on steps. Outside the hotel a Cockney sold dying flowers.
Like the rest of the museum their wing was well known for the quality of its echo, its long avenues of linoleum. Fitted with coiled heaters and the cream iron bed the rooms resembled more a hospital, the Platonic idea of a hospital, and evidently to dispel such a ridiculous impression, each room had been given a colourful Mughal miniature from the Museumâs reserve collectionâthough somehow the one over Sheilaâs bed was an erotic gouache (Nepalese?) showing a Tantric couple locked in intercourse, the man leaning back on an elbow pulling on a brass hookah. The bathroom furniture was all-white, hair-cracked, vitreous. The coil heaters must have been old too, for they were prone to a kind of throat-clearing, without any warning. In certain rooms it verged on the obscene. At first Sheila stood back alarmed, for her radiator had vibrated and complained as she spread a towel on it to dry. Sasha and Violet, sharing a room, couldnât help sitting down and laughing at theirs. The Cathcarts were a bit peeved. This hotel had baths, but no showers. Already Gerald had left in high spirits, setting out for the National Gallery; in London his face and walk were transformed.
There existed a pleasant feeling of freedom, of this vast city offering itself. It was all there, waiting. They could go where they liked, where they chose. While the rest of London was working they could stand and watch, and it felt luxurious. A shoal of Japanese had also assembled in the foyer, their leader holding up a metal flag. Doug who was going to Australia House nudged his wife. Those little Japs: you had to laugh. Their leader adjusted a tiny TV set fixed to his lapel which instantly showed, out of the corner of his eye, when one in the group strayed.
The stipple effect blurring London increased the minute they stepped out and walked. They immediately proceeded to lose themselves among the columns and grey type of a vast newspaper, interrupted by half-remembered photographs (Piccadilly Circus!). A foot occasionally slipped into the gutter, tilting their vision; and as in a newspaper they glanced ahead, anticipating, while still âreadingâ something close at hand. They skipped most advertisements. They came upon the solid facades of places usually found on the front page, the source of editorials and powerful headlines: Number 10 and 11, the old Foreign Office, House of Commons, grubby Buckingham Palace (to Borelli, âeyesaw Buckingham Palaceâ)â¦
Further along were the bronze doors of the city, the old bowler hat and awfully discreet countenance of the waiting chauffeurs (board meetings take place alongside the footpath), which gradually suggested the apparent tranquil sea and attendant tidal actions of stock market quotations, produced daily, and big deals (floats), announcements across tables. The theatre section: linguistic electroliers, sentences of critics! And some when they went on further turned into new areas and noticed how the layout and language altered sharply. Fonts switched to sans bold: small traders dropping their aitches. Page numbers were sometimes written in chalk. They entered the Classified Section, small types flogging trusses and stockings, uniforms, exploded armchairs, tangled coat-hangers, and shop-soiled blankets where you have to read between
Let us stick to the facts. The hotel was a converted wing of the British Museum, in the WC2 district of public lavatories and map shops. Pedestrian pairs consulted maps, many wearing the nylon parka and glasses, looking up like stunned mullets at street signs. Americans sat on steps. Outside the hotel a Cockney sold dying flowers.
Like the rest of the museum their wing was well known for the quality of its echo, its long avenues of linoleum. Fitted with coiled heaters and the cream iron bed the rooms resembled more a hospital, the Platonic idea of a hospital, and evidently to dispel such a ridiculous impression, each room had been given a colourful Mughal miniature from the Museumâs reserve collectionâthough somehow the one over Sheilaâs bed was an erotic gouache (Nepalese?) showing a Tantric couple locked in intercourse, the man leaning back on an elbow pulling on a brass hookah. The bathroom furniture was all-white, hair-cracked, vitreous. The coil heaters must have been old too, for they were prone to a kind of throat-clearing, without any warning. In certain rooms it verged on the obscene. At first Sheila stood back alarmed, for her radiator had vibrated and complained as she spread a towel on it to dry. Sasha and Violet, sharing a room, couldnât help sitting down and laughing at theirs. The Cathcarts were a bit peeved. This hotel had baths, but no showers. Already Gerald had left in high spirits, setting out for the National Gallery; in London his face and walk were transformed.
There existed a pleasant feeling of freedom, of this vast city offering itself. It was all there, waiting. They could go where they liked, where they chose. While the rest of London was working they could stand and watch, and it felt luxurious. A shoal of Japanese had also assembled in the foyer, their leader holding up a metal flag. Doug who was going to Australia House nudged his wife. Those little Japs: you had to laugh. Their leader adjusted a tiny TV set fixed to his lapel which instantly showed, out of the corner of his eye, when one in the group strayed.
The stipple effect blurring London increased the minute they stepped out and walked. They immediately proceeded to lose themselves among the columns and grey type of a vast newspaper, interrupted by half-remembered photographs (Piccadilly Circus!). A foot occasionally slipped into the gutter, tilting their vision; and as in a newspaper they glanced ahead, anticipating, while still âreadingâ something close at hand. They skipped most advertisements. They came upon the solid facades of places usually found on the front page, the source of editorials and powerful headlines: Number 10 and 11, the old Foreign Office, House of Commons, grubby Buckingham Palace (to Borelli, âeyesaw Buckingham Palaceâ)â¦
Further along were the bronze doors of the city, the old bowler hat and awfully discreet countenance of the waiting chauffeurs (board meetings take place alongside the footpath), which gradually suggested the apparent tranquil sea and attendant tidal actions of stock market quotations, produced daily, and big deals (floats), announcements across tables. The theatre section: linguistic electroliers, sentences of critics! And some when they went on further turned into new areas and noticed how the layout and language altered sharply. Fonts switched to sans bold: small traders dropping their aitches. Page numbers were sometimes written in chalk. They entered the Classified Section, small types flogging trusses and stockings, uniforms, exploded armchairs, tangled coat-hangers, and shop-soiled blankets where you have to read between
Similar Books
