Today Nick at Work was talking about something and he happened to mention Kevin. I thought it was the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of his disappearance.
ME: So, has Kevin gone then?
NICK: [Eyes downcast, voice oozing regret] Yes. Yes, Kevin has gone.
And that was it. His tone and physicality put an end to the discussion. I have decided to wait and ask him when the wound isn’t as raw. Maybe I’ll ask Terri. It’s all very mysterious.
Work was full of fixing up last week’s records and ended with a couple of new objects. At lunchtime, I popped over to the V&A to check out the new installation in the courtyard.
It is a series of mirrored platforms extending out over the water and is called You know, you cannot see yourself so well as by reflection and is by Frida Escobedo. It demonstrates the conflict between how we see ourselves and how we actually appear to others. Interesting concept but I reckon it could be quite bright in brilliant sunshine. Also, you really need to get above it to appreciate the full extent of the piece.
This is what it looked like from the ground.
The day wasn’t that sunny but it didn’t stop a horde of little kids from having a jolly good splash about in the water. Oddly, most of them appeared to be wearing swimmers, which leads me to think that their parents had intended them to go for a paddle. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I think it’s just a bit weird. Surely there’s a swimming pool somewhere nearby.
So the day slipped away, mired in research and trying to decipher catalogue records like this one:
On Waterloo station, ready to head home, I suddenly realised that it’s been ages since there were problems with the journey home. I realised this because there were big problems today. Someone collided with a train. Actually the official announcement was that a train hit a person. I assume an idiot decided to inconvenience the rest of us by jumping in front of one. I could be wrong.
Anyway, it severely affected my trip home. I had to get on an extremely packed train to Salisbury, get off at Woking then joined a very crowded train to Alton. As it turned out, I wasn’t late but was very uncomfortable. The train to Salisbury was like a hot and sweaty cattle car, packed solid with frustrated commuters who had no idea where they were going.
One chap, leaning against the wall of the carriage and reading the paper, entered into a deep conversation with an Italian woman sitting beside me, saying how he thought he had to go to Woking to get the Alton train but had never been to Woking and had no idea what to do when he reached it. She helpfully suggested he go to platform 5 when we arrived because that’s where the Alton trains usually come in to.
Apart from the extreme discomfort at the beginning of my trip home, the only real impact was not being able to watch the next episode of The Walking Dead. I was forced to read (not that that’s any great torture) because of a general lack of room.
Arriving at Farnham station, I was set to head for Waitrose to buy the essential ingredients for the pistachio cakes which I’m making for lunch tomorrow. Then I received a text from Mirinda telling me that Sarah is allergic to nuts. This meant a sudden change to the menu.
Possibly the smallest effect was not having toasted almonds in the tagine. By far the largest was the abandonment of the entire dessert. I decided to make syllabub with shortbread. Which I did after dinner. The extension was reeking of delicious smells all night.