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| Image not from the Museum |
In the
thrub of the city, there are quiet, small spaces of calm if you know where to
find them. Take Lincoln’s Inn Fields on a Saturday morning when the law is at
rest, for example, or the imaginary monk’s cell and parlour in the basement of
the Sir John Soane Museum that abuts the park.
It is
wasteful, almost profligate to spend the hours of sunshine on a winter’s day
indoors in the semi-dark amongst gargoyles, a marble skull, heavy furniture and
blood red walls. But with my teenage Goth daughter in tow and delighted by
everything here from the architectural ‘specimens’ to the fabulous sculpture
packed into every square inch of the house, there was no choice. And more, it
was a positive choice to keep from the Arctic cold that arrived with
insufficient notice for me to pack properly last weekend.
As usual, I
wanted the fires lit, everyone else banished and the place to myself, a good
tome from the library and a pot of tea. My needs are fairly simple, no? Barring
that, free entry, an exhibition on death and architecture and four of Hogarth’s
paintings from the Rake’s Progress kept us more than happy for the morning.
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