The Guilt of Picking Primark over Picasso..

So.. last week I had a meeting in London. Since I had to trek all the way up to Piccadily Circus and spend a completely ridiculous £30 for a return ticket and Oyster card top up, I thought I shouldn't waste the day. So after a brief foray into Primark on Oxford Street; something I generally avoid until times get so hard and I'm literally dreaming in fashion pages that I have to resort to trashy items stitched by guilt-wrenching 3rd world children. It's truly awful, but it amazes me how they can churn out a new trend days after it appears in a designer shop, admittedly less well made and less beautiful.

Anyway, to atone for my sins and because in my capacity as a writer I like to re-inspire myself with other peoples greatness, I took the tube from Oxford Street to Charing Cross and The National Gallery. Trafalgar Square was heaving as usual, and in the heat of that day I couldn't help thinking about the artist... what's his name... Antony Gormley who is doing the fourth plinth piece. In the height of British summer, I could not think of anything worse than standing on the fourth plinth, sweating and feeling self conscious. The other day I was channel hopping and I caught this program of people pretending to be animals in the zoo, actually getting in cages with them. One of them felt terrible, because of all the people, staring at them, all the time. This is what the plinth would be like. Even for the lucky ones who got the low periods when the tourists had gone home leaving behind only there discarded sandwich packets and maps; wouldn't they worry about falling off? To be honest it might not even be empty at any time now but contain youngsters lurking because of bloody Vodafone and there Flash-mob trend.

Anyway, back to The National Gallery, I eventually got in after not managing to avoid a lascivious comment from the pile of tramps lying on the grass by the stairs. I felt guilty that I had a Primark bag, so clearly some cash. I had an urge to explain to them that infact i had spent the last of my money in Primark, which meant that I couldn't go to the Picasso exhibition, which I would love and was simply making use of one of the last benefits of Britain; free Culture. I realised it was perhaps not the best idea and also hid my own guilty secre; that I had known about Picasso before and had chosen Primark and the rush of a new dress. So, I was going into the gallery to wonder round, get some inspiration, take some notes, maybe try and manifest a short story or two from some of the world's greatest works of art. I'll write about what I came up with in the next entry.