Walking the lines between destination points, not really noticing how the inbetween, the journey time disappears, hitting here and there a remarkable thing like a fingerstopping knot in an elastic string -- creepy child mannequin between the busstop and Selfridges, narrow isthmus between a camera crew and snapshotting tourists between Selfridges and Urban Outfitters, playful young lovers (potential) jumping in front of cars and (current) chasing pigeons (with interpolated undulating inflatable Ronald McDonald) between Urban Outfitters and Gosh, a grand rose window and a woman reflexively cursing a red police car between Gosh and Neal Street, and (in an astounding outburst of remarkableness) a decayed muralled cat, footprints sprayed on the pavement outside an empty shop, and a pigeon eating sleet-softened vomit off the pavement between Neal Street and the Photographers' Gallery.
The Photographer's Gallery is full of sscary Russian shit (I really liked these) and vastly reduced artist's books, which I resist, barely.
Then I have some idea about seeing the Lee Miller show at the National Portrait Gallery. It's going to cost me £7, though, and I don't have £7 of time, so instead I look at 50 photos of Frida Kahlo, marvelling at the consistency of her hairstyle, and then head downstairs to see Judy Dench and Germaine Greer and other remarkable women. I find one new to me in a sideroom full of photos of designers by Steve Speller (including brandmeister Garrick Hamm, the man who put baked beans on bread packets); Margaret Calvert, whose work anyone who goes anywhere on British roads will have seen, or, as they put it, "Calvert is best known for the 'cow', 'horse', 'deer', 'children crossing', and 'men at work' signs."
Then I checked my watch and darted dounstairs to check out Madame Yolande's exotic society godesses and a show on the theme of "family", whose outreach project has produed hordes of astoundingly creepy ceramics. Nervous Eid celebrations, terrifying, formless picnics, tightly-packed sofa scenes, weirder stuff like the temple of death and the spirit star. Illicit gallery photgraphers take note; every last one is in a mirror-backed case.
Description of the actual visit will quickly degenerate into too much information; suffice it to say that she is now desperately seeking companionship on baking message-boards and Mungo liked the toy I got him enough to kick it through Elle's stomach wall.
The rest (as they say) is pelvic.