Kentridge and chaos.

William Kentridge

The Americans call it being a snowbird. I am a snowbird. London life and work, Cape Town for the summer months. Blessing, and unsettling.

Talking of unsettling, the William Kentridge exibition at the Royal Academy is unsettling indeed. Disturbingly wonderful. In awe.

The week has been the closing of the year for me at Ham House. The garden history tours are sleeping till spring, though the house and cafe will remain open. Most of the leaves have fallen, the bees put to bed. Pumpkins eaten, but I did spot the first of the narcissus leaves reaching from the muddy ground.

Goodbye Ham, till the daffodils …

The rustic Richmond country feel, landed on a beach in Soho. Milk Beach is a new offering off Greek Street. Despite my wondering if I would enjoy the idea of summer in soaking Soho, mid December, the food, atmosphere and even the sounds of crashing waves pushed the rainy sidewalks to one side. My lovely London friend thought the crashing waves were Victorian pipes playing up. The outside seating area is going to be summer delight, when the umbrellas are no longer dripping rain tears.

Arriving at the hotel to collect my guests for the Westminster tour early morning, I could not but smile at the jewels of life this city reveals. I passed a bevy of bridesmaids in strappy dresses, tinged blue down to their toes in strappy shoes, waiting for the bride - a car accident, and a man having a very loud conversation with himself, whilst caressing the apples on the shop stand. Only other people up early on a Saturday morn were going to the markets and tourists, stars in their eyes and guide books in their hands. Nervous coffee addicts.

The Royal Academy. South African artist William Kentridge.

Little is subtle about Kentridge’s pieces - they pierce the room. Assault the senses. I’m reminded of watching the propagandist nazi films, Punch and Judy shows. Puppets, crazy crayons and Commedia d’ell Arte.

Voices over voices and scribbles over scribbles, the intensity like a cloak of guilt, danger and drama. As a South Africa, I see the torn landscape of apartheid, the indifference to despair. It is uncomfortable, and yet it is. South Africa is uncomfortable. The stories are savage, and beautiful, never bland. Never explained. I miss her shores.

Yet another kind of insanity lay beyond the entrance to the Royal Academy.

‘I shall walk up Bond Street to the tube.’ I said.

‘View the lights.’ I said. And said goodbye.

Cursed. To have forgotten Saturday in Central London and Black Friday on a Saturday. The possibility of a stampede was real, the tube station shut for safety and crushing masses trying to squeeze every pram, aunty and Primark bag onto a bus. People getting ugly with Christmas shopping. Chaos indeed.

There are two advantages of being a mature woman in her sixties. Actually three. One, you are alone so slipping between bodies to the front, is easier. Secondly, being older, some would hesitate to shove in front of you, and three, you lose all sense of fear and fairness in the fight - your years have you at the Noddy Badge of tenacity. We were writhing spiders in a tin can.

Christmas spirit blasted, the lights are London’s finest hour in winter. To return to view discreetly when hoards are not queuing for Ralph Lauren or take selfies at Dior. Did I mention the protest outside of Louis Vuitton? Now …

We have had, and I need to breathe slowly here for the rage threatens. We have had imbeciles ruining priceless art and simpletons screwed to the ground. I understand the message and abhor the methods. Outside the shop, in the mass migration of Black Friday, a band of animal rights activists tried their best.

‘Here is Tansy.’ a man spewed over a microphone. ‘She will be turned into a handbag …’ I did not quite hear the details. You are lecturing to those who spend a poor man’s life earnings on a label, so I doubt Tansy has a chance.

Dior in New Bond Street.

I get silly at Christmas time. Silly over lights and memories. There is also a very strong likeness to Grinch lurking in me - bugger off crowds and selfie sticks and those who take photographs when the signs say ‘NO PHOTOGRAPHS’ and I want to smack them and send them to bed with no supper.

A cacophony of worlds in one day. Breathless and breathtaking.

And here I am this afternoon, overlooking the square in Notting Hill. The rain clings to stucco houses while parakeets, Carribean green, compete with black crows. All mixed up in London.

‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.’ Samuel Johnson (avid tea drinker)

A snowy Christmas

Falling into Christmas.