I set out to see the Edvard Munch exhibit at the BM, and it took ages because of the traffic, everything on diversion, and all. When I got there,the place was packed to the gunnels, largely with loud kids. I then discovered that I wouldn't be able to get into the show for another three hours (!), so, I just mooched around for a bit, and fucked off. The BM used to be such a lovely quiet place, at off times. It was kind of dusty, darkish, musty and sometimes spooky, as a good museum should be. It's changed so much. I've only been there a few times in recent years, but it's always bustling, everything's bright and unmysterious, and it just doesn't have as much soul...or is it me?
Anyway, I grumped along to the bus stop where nothing was coming, and police sirens were wailing all over the place. I shuffled along to the Strand, where, of course, there were no 87s, only a lot of baffled, pissed off people. These grebos, legions of them, were buzzing around blowing their horns and carrying on. Nobody knew what it was in aid of, but I discovered later that they were protesting the prosecution of one of the soldiers involved in the Bloody Sunday tragedy. Gods, there were a lot of them. I carried on walking to St Thomas', hoping to board a 77, but no... The 88 on diversion stopped for us, and I went as far as Tate Britain, where I was actually able to pick up an 87. There were several of them, actually. The southbound route seemed to be starting there, for the afternoon. My knees are really singing the blues, now. This city's just sad.
Apparently I'm quite anaemic, which didn't surprise me, with all that puking in the last few months, and not getting enough protein at the best of times. He's prescribed iron tablets. Yippee.