London outing

I cycled over to St Germans Thursday morning to celebrate Mass this morning, as Father Roy Doxsey has taken a group to Caldey Island for a retreat. It was an all male affair, four of us sharing the weekday Mysteries - not that unusual at St German's in my experience, people make the effort. 

Then I cycled to the CIA to take minutes at the Cardiff Business Safe Users' security meeting. There were eighteen of us present, including three police. One of them Richard Moorcroft is the incoming Inspector for the city centre sector, introduced by his colleague, about to retire, Tony Bishop. After the meeting they came over to the City Centre management officer for a cup of tea and an informal chat. Then, while it was all fresh in my mind I drafted the minutes of the meeting, before getting on with the rest of my work. There was a lot to get done, as I was not due to be in the office on Friday, owing to a trip to London for a birthday treat.

Kath and Anto bought me a ticket for a concert in the Barbican centre of our favourite Spanish contemporary flamenco fusion group, Ojos de Brujo.  So, I caught the fast 8.30 bus, and went and had lunch with my sister June first. We travelled in to Chelsea together on the bus afterwards, and visited the Saatchi contemporary art gallery, an amazing palacial Georgian building mainly full of large inferior paintings, with a handful of quite interesting installations. I liked the glass tank which at first sight appeared to be full of flying insects frozen in mid air, but on closer inspection revealed them to have tiny fairies either riding on them or hanging from them.

There was also a room housing a custom made tank full of old sump oil. Its dark sheen made for the most intriguing optical illusion, mirroring the light walls and ceiling, but in a dark shade, giving a strange sensation of depth. However, although the oil was seemingly odourless, I came out of the installation room with a irritating cough which persisted for the rest of the day. The sort of cough I associate with those days when central heating oil would be delivered to the Vicarage. There's something not right about that.

After tea in Peter Jones' store, I took the underground to the Barbican Centre to rendezvous with Kath and Anto. It was a great performance, both by Ojos de Brujo and the support band Depedro, although getting the sound balance right seemed to take the first half of their set.

We were told that this would be Ojos de Brujo's last appearance, as they are disbanding after ten years, to pursue other projects. How sad for us. But who knows what will emerge as a result? Will it be as good, as innovative, I wonder?

I loved the way that Marina Abad, the band's singer, closed the concert, following two encore songs, with an unaccompanied solo, that sounded to me as if it was a traditional lullaby, clearly known by the majority of her young Spanish ex-pat audience.

Having re-installed my sister's net curtains at risk of life and limb - she has tall windows - I returned by coach, Saturday lunchtime, and went straight into the office for a couple of hours before going home, as Clare is in Kenilworth babysitting, for Kath and Anto, both to take me to last night's concert, and do a gig of their own this evening.

Back home again, I watched the evening's double episode of 'Engrenage'. It gives a picture of Parisian politics, policing and crime which seems incredibly sleazy,  when compared with the dubious image of the same in  Copenhagen portrayed in the recently completed serial 'The Killing'. I felt like a needed a wash after watching it - the kind of feeling you get when you've walked through a dirty derelict old building. Strange, not nice.