continued from part 6
Pre-warned by the weather forecast, we donned as many layers of clothing as we possibly could, and set out to explore the glories of the British Library, feeling and probably looking like sausages. It was only the end of fall--not even real winter yet--but I was soon pathetically grateful for every layer. We fled from the cold and the wet into a bookshop's Costa cafe, where I tasted the great pleasure concentrated in what is called a lemon curd tart. White chocolate and lemon curd are like a loving couple.
We took a leisurely detour to explore Leicester Square and the Cecil Court bookshops, which we enjoyed, yet were disappointed by, because they were for collectors and not for our shallow pockets, be our feelings ever so deep. I let my fingers linger on the delicate aged paper of books preserved with time-defying love...caught the bookshop owner's reproachful gaze, and immediately felt bad for taking up space in his shop when I obviously couldn't afford anything!
Somewhere along our wanderings, I don't know where now, I had the delight of seeing this restaurant in the photo above. That, and passing by Scotland Yard (YES SCOTLAND YARD I REPEAT SCOTLAND YARD) itself, were the only tribute to the great Sherlock Holmes which we paid in this trip. We didn't make it to the actual 221B Baker Street, but at least we got to see the Baker Street Tube station!
At the British Library there was an exhibit on illustrations from children's classics, from 'the 10 Greatest Children's Books:' Wind in the Willows, Just So Stories, Paddington, The Railway Children, The Secret Garden, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Hobbit, Peter Pan, and The Iron Giant. I took my time wandering around, feeling very grateful that there were people who made such exhibitions. I felt so pleased because it seemed like all my old friends were getting the recognition they deserved--when in reality it was more like the great classics whom I was claiming as my childhood friends!
If you have any interest in history and literature and music, then the British Library will seem a hallowed place. It holds the original Beowulf manuscript; it has the Magna Carta and Gutenberg, Tyndale, and Wycliffe Bibles, sitting quietly under their glass for all the world as if they weren't centuries older than you. You can see the scribbled manuscripts of Wordsworth, Robert Browning, and Joseph Conrad; the sketches of Edward Lear's limericks, and Jane Austen's desk as well as handwriting. Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe's plays. The drawings of Da Vinci and Michelangelo. Music scores of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Handel's original Hallelujah score. The letters of Elizabeth and Mary; and Lady Jane Gray's prayerbook.
It was quite overwhelming to see so many great historical artefacts all in one space, no long cues, just the glass cases; and free.
I felt incredibly grateful that such a thing was even possible.
Broccoli and Stilton soup, which sounded promising, brought me back to earth with is thin, oily complexion; I'd expected a thick creamy soup, being an Asian child who assumed all Western soup descended from the Campbell's canned mushroom soup I'd grown up on. As it was, there were bits of gelatinous partially melted cheese floating around, with suspiciously black things in the cheese that made it resemble collops of subpar fatty meat. I made a mental note to avoid all Broccoli and Stilton soups in the future and concentrated on enjoying the rest of the British Library experience. A little mad lady sat at the table besides us and had a long, intense, sometimes emotional monologue with a booklet. I wondered if she was an actress practising her lines but noticed the same expression in other people's faces that I see in Singapore, the self-consciously indifferent detached look that people use to isolate themselves from someone behaving strangely in public.
There was a surprise performance, flashmob style, by the Library's choir, to commemorate Verdi; 'Brindisi' really caught my heart to dance along and sing. I sat listening, feeling keenly how special it was to be here in the middle of a busy weekday morning, able to simply sit and enjoy classical music performed live.
I pushed away the bowl holding the last unpleasant memory of Broccoli Stilton soup, and felt that it was good to be alive.
to be continued in part 8