Tuesday was quite a good day.
We went to Westminster and sat on an elevated bench by the river wall and had a rather surreal conversation with a man to sitting next to us.
“We’re hoping to see the Red Arrows,” I said.
“So am I,” he replied.
He said he was a retired teacher from Oxford.
“What school did you teach at?” I asked.
“Magdalen College.”
“My brother went there,” said Jan.
“I was only there 28 years. And a housemaster for eleven years, for my sins.”
Normally, I don’t talk to strangers.
“I live in Summertown,” he said.
“I grew up in Summertown,” said Jan.
“I’m on my way to Tate Britain.”.
“Snap,” said Jan.
By now it was 11.59 a.m. and a seagull landed on the wall and looked at us to see if we had any sandwiches. A second seagull landed two feet away from the first.
“They’re late,” said the teacher.
“The RAF is never late,” I replied.
“There they are !” said Jan, pointing to a diamond phalanx of military jets that came silently rocketing towards us, leaving trails of red, white and blue smoke. We only heard the engine noise after they flashed over the Palace of Westminster to our left.
We saw the strangely beautiful paintings of Peter Doig.
Rich colours, arresting shapes, graphic dream-images, landscapes of startling originality – incredible !
I’d never heard of Peter Doig until Tuesday. That’s how ignorant I am. But sometimes it’s nice to be ignorant. You can be surprised. You can be gobsmacked. You can walk into a room and see paintings that make you think, “F***ing hell !!!”
Halfway round the exhibition Jan whispered, “He’s of Scottish origin, grew up in Canada, came here to study, and now lives in Trinidad.”
Peter Doig is something else. The stuff he did in the Nineties, particularly, is fantastic.
My best friend Doug, a painter himself, said, “I think he’s one of the most expensive living painters.”