One or more perfect people

I’m on the train. It’s a mobile mantra: useful for telling anyone who shows the slightest interest in the current point you’ve attained in your journey…yes, we’ve just pulled into Clapham but, no, we haven’t actually stopped….something to fill the time on an unexpectedly long journey apart from the obligatory Sudoko. And this journey is not what I’d expected. It’s the first train I’ve been on all weekend which is empty and this in itself is surprising given that it’s apparently passing through every single station south of the Watford Gap.

We’re allegedly heading for Weymouth. So far, we’ve been to Woking, Guildford, Havant, Fareham and are now off to Southampton Central; which means that all those wanting to catch a plane from Southampton Parkway to travel a little further afield have been denied the opportunity; although they have, nonetheless, had a bit of a scenic treat. Had they been looking. Personally, I’ve kept my eyes downward. The bloke opposite me, who I initially entertained with the utterly useless sports section of my newspaper, has, having spent the last thirty minutes chewing all the skin from his finger-tips, started talking to himself again. He seems to have a particular dislike for Fareham which is unsurprising given that it is, according to the dreary voice on the intercom, one of many locations we are visiting that involves travellers walking the length of a three mile long train in order to disembark at some random venue where the platform measures less than four feet. In fact, judging by my travelling companion’s utterances, it may well be the second time we’ve been here during this interminable journey.

I’ve been up to town to see the new Van Gogh exhibition. What joy! Firstly, there is the pleasure of having a daughter who lives in Bromley who possesses an extremely laid back partner. Not for me the anxieties of wondering how to pass the time with one’s son-in-law who is keen to off-load the old baggage. We meet at Waterloo and instead of some marathon-like yomp to Kent, we partake of a little wine and beer on the platform in a leisurely style before chatting our way onwards to all points east. Obviously, the satisfaction of watching the world and his wife pass by whilst imbibing a surprisingly good Shiraz is marginally counteracted by discovering that Waterloo is second only in price in the whole world to doing likewise in St. Mark’s Square, Venice. But who cares and what joy to get up late the next morning and carelessly plan the trip into London.


Mind you, the big day out is fraught with potential difficulties if your daughter is a very well organised school teacher. For a start, I didn’t help matters by having lost my cross-London travel ticket by the time we disembarked at Charing Cross. Apparently, we are only one stop away from our destination by the tube that we might have used had I still been in possession of the said rover’s ticket. My purse and handbag are taken from me and searched thoroughly whilst I sit happily in a semi-comatose state of existence knowing only that she won’t find the missing ticket. I can’t understand how you lost it says Little Miss Perfect. I expect it fell out when I retrieved my fags I say. The usual mutterings about lung cancer ensue. Do you want to go to the toilet she asks? No thank-you. Two ladies, aged about forty and sixty emerge. Do you want to go to the toilet the younger asks the elder. She speaks to her mother like you speak to me I observe pleasantly. Well, you always want to go to the toilet says my daughter to the mother apparently on the verge of incontinence addled Alzheimers.


As soon as we’d come out of the exhibition we were planning how to get back in. It was glorious. Sometimes I go to bed unable to sleep because my head is full of France. It seems that my life is focused on trying to determine ways to return to the south. If I could only write the words in the way that Van Gogh captured the essence I would be a very rich woman. And here’s the surprise with this tremendous event: not only are we faced with far more paintings than we had imagined or anticipated, but we have these carefully chosen and beautifully illustrated letters that he worded in four different languages. And of course, what my daughter and I have shared on more than one occasion is the first hand experience of Arles, Les Alpilles, the mausoleum and the starry, starry nights of St. Remy; as well as the stupendous projections of Van Gogh in the Cathedral of Images. What lucky, privileged women we are.