And a dip into Stockholm
Who was that tennis player? Not Bjorn Borg, the other one. The question came to mind on the Arlanda Express and no I couldn't let it go. So our weekend in Stockholm began by exercising the old grey matter... I managed to extract an 'S' but was beaten to it by Al who a day later shouted 'Stefan Edberg!' as we walked down another interesting avenue of Soviet, Italianate and Pagan influenced architecture. It was hard to pick the bits that were typically 'Swedish' and we were rocked on learning the vikings never wore helmets with horns. Pure bull, said a tour guide. And as for the touristic, elevated viewing platform above the town 'It is not so funny. I do not recommend it.' She said.
We found suitable vantage by boat in any case and as we cruised around the archipelago I tried to imagine horrific sex-crimes taking place in the quaint boat-sheds and summer-huts all around. Then I tried to put it out of mind - because the Swedes are so so nice and friendly really - in fact, before it all properly goes to shit, we should find a hilly little bit of the Stockholm archipelago and stake our claim. I like the idea of being frozen in and fending for myself.
We did plenty of sauna. Took advantage of the slim window of the supranaturally insignificant Easter Saturday, browsing Acne, Acne Archive, Filippa K, Tiger, and Marimekko and as many design emporia as possible in 8 hours... Because Sweden is in the details. It is the marble and birch of the spa, the soft white light of the street lights, the sculpted arm rests on the train, the coat racks/hooks/rooms in every establishment, the slim-fit suit of the concierge, the illustration of the menu. OK so I loved it up there. But once you've had herring 'five ways' it can feel a little like you've done it all.
So back to London where I've continued to do the rounds - Jean Paul Gaultier at the Barbican, Chris Maker at the Whitechapel, David Hockney at Dulwich Picture Gallery. Pizza with Fi at Pizza East, waffles at Caravan with Jacqui and Panda, champagne with Al at Claridge's. Yes, it's all been a bit ridiculous. As was my latest greatest celebrity spot - out the front of the same Mayfair hotel - Naomi Campbell in the back seat of an all black Range Rover, window down, smokin'.
A quiet day today of beautification as I prepare for my birthday in Paris. It's already gone sideways with an eyebrow tint that's left me looking like a drag act. Must go soak my face in eye-make-up remover. I should not be left home alone! At this age!
Why, thank-you...