My first step in this direction was to go to the Natural History Museum last Sunday. Although it was filled with hot Dads, it was a slightly disappointing experience compared to the memory that I held most dear from when I was about ten years old.
The fossils and rocks were just plain dull, the Biology slightly more gripping (although the giant baby in a woman's womb with heart-beat sound-effects was simply haunting), and the dinosaurs and mammal section enthralling. Someone said to me at brunch the other day that she went on an awful date at the NHM - I think I would have been charmed. The queue to see the dinos was 45 minutes long, so I skipped that and went on to learn that a centipede actually runs faster than a cheetah (realitively you understand), and that in the kitchen reconstruction a French-man made me jump by letting me pass to look in a sink with the usual washing up and a daddy-long-legs to which he went rahh! when I leaned over to inspect the species. I was not amused although his friends were in stitches.
Seven pounds to go and see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition! I decided to opt out and will instead nick my father's catalogue that he always gets that will inform me of the winners and special recommendations for 2008. I did glimpse a photo of a tree frog fighting a snake - jaw to jaw - which I will look forward to seeing in close up and without a ginger headed German in my way loudly asking for directions for which way to see the Albatross.
The following weekend was a trip to The London Zoo - highlights being the meerkats and aquarium. No Elephants. My flatmate Sarah pointed out that all the animals looked like they had no souls - their eyes were dead and unhopeful, the steel bars marring her photos and their sense of freedom. No hot dads and it was so much smaller than I remembered, although I suppose I was so much smaller when I last visited.
This Easter weekend I made a trip to Wiltshire, the moon-raking county, to see my parents. This included a five mile walk on easter sunday, followed by a seven mile walk on bank holiday monday where we encountered a man collecting dandelion flowers with his ratter dog with the intention of making wine on the crest between Druids Lodge and the valley down to the Langfords. The holiday was heaven - two and a half days of blissful sunshine and flowers - is this what I'm missing living in the big smoke? The icing on the cake was catching a glimpse of the bird of Wiltshire - The great bustard, which was made instinct from trigger-happy Victorians until about ten years ago when it was re-introduced from Russia. It was strutting about in the field behind my parent's property. A lonely male - the female away on some sort of migration - it was an adolescent performing it's mating dance with feathers quivering with the local swans freaking out and taking flight to the nearest lake.
On the way home, after a peaceful barbeque by the herb patch in my parent's orchard with help of the cimenaya (smoky yet satisfying sausage and ciabatta babs), I endured standing on the train until Clapham Junction where a nice business man offered me his seat. At the time I was quite happily sat in the centre of the aisle reading the first Adrian Mole book and chuckling to myself every five minutes. The seat, although apparently a blessing, actually soiled my good mood as every time I ventured to peek out the window at the transcendental sunset, the woman on the window side - evidently listening to phil Collins followed by Kylie (I should be so lucky no doubt) - which I could hear by the pumping bass that was eeking out of her headphones. It wasn't so much the music, but the fact that every-time I glanced towards the vista, she, thinking I was looking at her perhaps in true city-ite fashion(?) tutted audibly and glanced towards me with irritation. She was probably ashamed by her taste in music. I would be, let's face it.
