Other people eat to live……

‘The Frieze Art Fair’ in Regents Park, was full of arty collectors, rich gallery owners, Richard E Grant and poseurs. Some of the work was good; I particulalry liked Evan Penny’s bald man and Pam Ferris lookalike.
They hung on the wall, as big as a Fresian Cow. The detail of their skin and hair, eyes and lips was uncanny.
But, there was too much art, too much noise, too much competition. If this is the way we sell our young artists I fear for their creativity. There was no time for reflection, it felt like a cattle market.
One young Russian was drawing lines on a laughing monkey with a silver pen. He had flown in from the Mother Country and was completing his piece de resistance before our very eyes – a sort of Slavic Rolf Harris.

I was taken to the fair by my German friend who has started to collect Art. Funny concept, collecting art. She says, “its an investment.” Those poor painters and sculptors; I wondered whether they made heartfelt pieces or whether, like the Eurovision Song Contest, they were looking for the acrylic version of ‘Puppet on a String’.
.
Whatever it was I thought of TS Eliot’s poem,
‘In the room the women come and go talking of Michael Angelo.’
We rushed from exhibit to exhibit like pretencious meercats.
We could have gone on a ‘Frieze Talk’ to find out about the galleries, of which there were several, to learn who the custodians of culture were and the theory and practice of cultural cartography or leave and find somewhere good for lunch. There was no contest our bellies were bigger than our eyes.
It was a pleasure to leave. Regents park was damp and misty.
We walked down Marylebone Road, dodged the traffic and took a left down Marylebone High Street.
Not a lot of supermarkets more a selection of bijou shops and eateries.
We finally found ‘The Providores’, Peter Gordon’s fusion restaurant. Peter is a Kiwi. He had just returned from Paris where he had been preparing food for 180 guests in a huge inflatable rugby ball, behind the Eiffel Tower, for the rugby match today.
They are probably eating his raspberry-rosewater and passionfruit ripple sorbets with Hokey Pokey ice-cream, Zespri Golden Kiwi fruit and nut biscotti as we speak.
The Fraulein and myself had a Bellini cocktail, a simple salad, cheese and biscuits and a deep and meaningful conversation about life, art and whether M&S thongs were better than La Perla. Then we walked for an hour and jumped into a taxi at The Dorchester.
And before you have a go about my decadent lifestyle, you’re right. This week has been eating, drinking and wishing I were back at OHI with 8oz of wheatgrass and a clear conscience.
I drove us back to the country, it took so long by the time we reached East Sussex it was nearly Thanks Giving.
I kissed Jim, the dog, the cat and the walls, threw off my clothes and changed into my Cancer Charity dressing gown, the one with pink ribbons on it, when Fraulein K, invited us for an Indian take-away.
Faisal took the order, Jim drove to collect it – this is the country remember, we don’t have home deliveries – and, even if we did, they’d never find us.
I put three plates in the oven, ( to warm ) and after unloading three brown carrier bags of goodies we settled down to munch whilst watching ‘Have I got News for You’ and ‘QI’ twice.
I am in love with Stephen Fry; he needs to know that.
The food was delicious. The tarka dahl was thick and gloopy, the tandoori chicken moist and chunky, the chapati and naan warm and doughy, the cauliflower barghee clean and crunchy, the belly, big and bloaty.
This morning I drove my German shepherdess to pick up her hire car and arrived back at the cottage in time to take coffee and toast with our ex bank manager who is so lovely I nearly took out an overdraught. After which Jim and the dog walked me on The Forest, after which I shopped for the papers and cat food, after which I watched ‘Stricly Come Dancing’, after which we ate a hot Harissa laden lamb stewy thing I had cooked whilst crying at Kelly Brooks’ footwork, after which I came upstairs to write this.
I am now going to have a bath, climb into bed and read something that has nothing whatsoever to do with art or food and then go to sleep because tomorrow I’m on the wireless.
Do join me and Gino De Campo and an American Actor who is doing a show in London about Tom Waits, the gravel voiced singer who has a drunken piano.
Hic
That’s your lot
cul8tr.