Felt gloomy and sickly, and unfit for anything, but I forced myself to go to the National Gallery, to see the Lorenzo Lotto portraits.
Of course, I got caught in a massive deluge just as I got off the bus, then a jobsworth at the door said he couldn't let me in because of my trolley. I sputtered that I always go in with it, and what about people with pushchairs. 'That's a completely different thing.' he said. 'But I need it to hold me up.' I peeped, and he said 'You mean it's a mobility aid?' and reluctantly admitted me. People were looking and I felt humiliated. Mothafuckah!
Anyway, it was a really nice little show, free, and not too crowded. There's something quite deep and soulful about some of Lotto's work. I was particularly charmed by the handsomely melancholy 'Young Man with a Lizard.'
I had a look at the Rachel Maclean 'Lion and the Unicorn' stuff, and film, too. Clever, but not really my cup o' tea.
When I came out, it had cleared up, but I still felt a bit crook, so just went home. I had a bit of bread with tuna pate, and barfed yet again
Pointlessly faffed around with the dead hoover some more, feeling desperate. Meh.