Kiss

Clare asked to to take some photos of the paddocks/stables (Willowbrook, I think) behind the house, apparently there for half a century. Powerful though pleasant enough smells of horse shit, a woman cleaning out the stables, and then, in fields behind these, the horses, effortlessly beautiful as only horses can be: chestnut, piebald, white, old, young, or short and sturdy with hooves like 'bells of hair' to quote MacNeice. I met three of the local girls who help out, Kelsey and Hannah and a younger one, Amber (pictured).

Later into city to meet my cousin P, whom I haven't seen since I was 17 (and then only briefly). We had a good chat over a cup of coffee near Piccadilly and he told me something of his life, which has had some difficult patches, and promised to meet again before too long. One of my reasons for calling him was to confirm my visit to his dad, my uncle Dermot who lives in Salisbury. Dermot is the last of my mother's siblings who is still alive and awake in the world. He had already called me earlier to say I was welcome, so the trip is set to happen tomorrow.

After saying goodbye to P, I wandered again, making my way back to Trafalgar and The Strand. I met Barry in The Crypt, but they were having a jazz night (tickets only) so Barry took me to another place, a marvelous old converted hotel not far from there (can't remember the name, have to check with him). A French feel to it, all mirrors and brass rails, but nothing too posh or stiff, a bevy of people coming and going, sense of another era, 1940s perhaps, or earlier: the kind of place Lautrec would have been happy painting. We got seats at the bar and ordered meals, and lovely beer for myself. We got the train back to Lee from Waterloo, so I could book my ticket for the visit to my uncle tomorrow. Crossing the flyover, I looked through the smoky plastic window and saw this painterly street scene.