Impressions

I had a spontaneous invite to meet up at lunchtime from Mrs S today, an old colleague from days gone by. The last time we saw each other it had been over an unsophisticated pizza in Leatherhead the previous summer; entertainment had been provided by a brawl outside the pub opposite, one of those flappy amateur fights which are both laughable and distasteful at the same time. 

Mrs S has a history of making poor political predictions (having assured me the previous year that the Remain campaign would be a resounding success and Donald Trump would only become President of America in an alternative reality); so before we sat down to drink I insisted that she state categorically that there was no way the tories could lose the June election. Formalities out of the way we then sat down and enjoyed a small glass of wine and a large bowl of gossip and reminiscence in the sunshine.

By then I was in a place where I needed calming down. The morning had been very full on with endless requests for advice, a meeting with the auditors, a couple of routine crises, and far too much chocolate. Not for the first time I concluded that I really didn’t want this, although I knew as well that I wanted the stimulation without the stress. We chatted for an hour and it was good therapy. We noted that I would be sixty and she would be forty the following year which made us a hundred years old, something worthy of celebration. We will put a date in the diary.

The weather was lovely tonight; we ate in the garden, watched the sun go down, and I fell asleep listening to Will Gompertz’ “What are you looking at?“ which is all about the history of modern art. It is not a boring book; I just fell asleep, as you do after a long day. But I did, before fading, hear about the first exhibition organised by the impressionists in 1874, a commercial and critical disaster but one which did prove to be the stirrings of a whole new movement.

The garden really did look lovely tonight. Definitely a painter’s light and one which made me very reflective (TSM noted how quiet we both were, wrapped up in our own thoughts and pastimes). We are off to Canada in ten days time; after that I need to start thinking about priorities and plans for the future. I really do not have the stamina for life in today’s NHS. I want to spend more time with the likes of Monet and Sisley and Cezanne. I want the stimulation without the stress. I want lunchtime conversations and evenings with birdsong. I want to be able to wake up in the morning and drink tea with the woman I love and not to rush out of the door and be in work by 7.30.


I want quality.