Wednesday, March 18, 1981


I was up at six thirty and at Farnshaw College by eight for our Art coach trip down to London to the National Gallery. The journey down was pretty boring and we got to our hotel, the Dorset Gardens, at about one. Lee and I were in room 15, a poky two-bed box down in the basement with a TV, a clock radio, a shower, telephone, and an incredibly stuffy atmosphere. We dumped our stuff and got the tube to the National.

Everyone split up, and Julie Crabtree stayed with Lee, Jeremy, and I, slightly over-reactive and neurotic Julie of the baggy jumpers and flowing skirts who has a thing for anything Chinese or Japanese. We wandered around the echoing galleries. Van Eyck’s Arnolfini’s Wedding was a highlight, and it was pretty good seeing original paintings by Van Gogh, Seurat, Cezanne, Gaugin, Holbein, Vermeer, and Van Der Weiden. I love the pinks and violets in Seurat’s famous bathing painting.

After three we were left to our own devices. We went and had a Big Mac and some milk and wandered up towards Leicester Square looking for a film to see, eventually settling on Private Benjamin starring Goldie Hawn. Julie seemed especially keen on seeing it, so we paid out £2.50 and went in. The film was schmaltzy and soppy at the end but I quite enjoyed it; something to do anyway. Afterwards we wandered about Leicester Square looking at shops until tennish, when we went back to the hotel bar to play cards, drink half-lagers and talk until the early hours.

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