Ghosts

This morning I felt as if I was in an M.R. James story: alone on a misty country lane, listening to the sound of horses hooves that seemed to approach, but never arrived. I don't believe in ghosts, but fog has a curious ability to induce feelings of paranoia. When the visible world is reduced to a radius of 20 yards, the sounds that come from beyond its limits can seem vaguely threatening.

I don't think that working on my own suits me. I'd always thought it would, but I spent this morning alone in my cowshed, picking the book orders for tomorrow's collection and found myself going over past injustices, broken friendships and unresolved conflicts. I've no idea why.

David Sylvian wrote a very good song about it.

Yesterday was more my cup of tea, with a return visit to the wonderful Light Show at the Hayward Gallery:

I was there two weeks ago and was so impressed, I decided to buy tickets for my wife and youngest son. Taking a seven-year-old to an art gallery is always a gamble, but I thought that the Light Show would be a safe bet and I was right. My son loved it.

We should have quit while we were ahead, but my wife had heard that there was a free performance of Poulenc's Story of Babar the Elephant, next door, in the Royal Festival Hall:

Poulenc's sub-Stravinskian score lacks the big tunes that make Peter and the Wolf so successful, but the players and two narrators performed with gusto. Sadly, they were no competition for several hundred under-fives with a short attention span and we struggled to hear the music above the din of screaming children and mothers shouting "Lily! Please stop hitting the man."

As I was the man that Lily was hitting, I was quite keen to leave.

We walked back to Waterloo Station via the South Bank. Even in February, the area was packed with street entertainers and the queue for the London Eye seemed longer than ever. In an archway, a man was lying on the ground singing "I...woz...bawwnnnnn...in... Lahhhhhdan...tahhhhhn..." and I realised that his was the first genuine London accent I'd heard all day. It would be rather poignant if the only real Londoner I saw was a homeless man.

The journey home took longer than usual, as someone had decided to throw themselves on the railway line at Shoreham. Instead of the usual euphemistic descriptions of a 'passenger action' or 'incident', we were baldly told that someone had "committed suicide at Shoreham". My son looked horrified.

On the way home, both my wife and I agreed that being in London was invigorating. We had got into a rut since our oldest son became ill, last year, avoiding any journeys outside Lewes because our absence exacerbated his anxiety.

It had seemed liked the right thing at the time. However, when I found myself working in a remote cowshed, surrounding by hostile dogs and limbless humans, I knew that I'd only stay sane if I had a little more fun at the weekends.

When the landscape looks like this and the first thing I see on leaving work is a sheep's carcass that looks as if it's been stripped by zombies, it's time to buy a ticket to London Victoria.

Fortunately, I won't be working alone for much longer. The two postgraduates who worked with me last year will be back next week, so I won't be as susceptible to to the ghosts.

I'll end as I began, with M.R. James. Do you believe in ghosts?

Sound and Vision

Although it's only the beginning of February, I think I can safely say that I've just been to my favourite exhibition of 2013.

I don't know what other people want from art, but I'm happiest when it brushes away the cobwebs and briefly restores that elusive sense of childlike wonder. That's why I enjoyed the Hayward Gallery's Sound and Light exhibition, which is on until April 28th.

The first exhibit is Cyllinder II, by Leo Villareal, which flickers and dazzles with a continually changing pattern. It reminded me of one of those 1960s or 70s sci-fi series where the producers were clearly either pushed for time or had gone over budget: "I know, why don't we just say that the aliens are so advanced, they've evolved into non-corporeal beings? Then we'll only need a few flashing lights."

Indeed, there was a very alien quality to this work, as if it had just appeared from nowhere, sent by an higher intelligence as a way of testing our response (which would, of course, be to strip it down and see if the technology could be used for military purposes).

Equally spectacular was Chromosaturation, by Carlos Cruz-Diez which, in the artist's own words, is  "an artificial environment composed of three colour chambers that immerse the visitor in a completeley monochrome situation (where) colour acts with all its force on the spectator's skin, objects and surrounding wall surfaces."

The result is very disorienting, particularly in the area where the three colours meet and create an effect that feels like a fog:

Although the exhibition was packed, this installation was curiously empty. Apart from me, there was just one woman - earnestly studying a pamphlet - and two ageing hipsters:

That's what I like about the art world: you can be 49 and still be a 'Young British Artist' - a refreshing contrast to the world of rock and pop, where a pipe and comfy slippers await anyone over 30.

Mr Hipster seemed gently bemused by the artwork, but Mrs Hipster said she'd had enough:

 I was still trying to get over the shock of seeing my skin in green light. Green's obviously not my colour:

As I left Chromosaturation, I saw a long queue and naively assumed that it must be worth joining. 20 minutes of utter tedium followed, only slightly relieved by the unsuccessful attempts of a girl (who looked uncannily like Velma from Scooby Doo) to push in front of me. However, the boredom of queueing was nothing compared to the spectacular dullness of the artwork itself.

I looked at my watch. I was due to go to a concert at the Purcell Room in half an hour and needed to get a move on. If only I hadn't wasted 20 minutes with Velma.

Luckily I had enough time to see a spectacular installation which consisted of a strobe light and miniature fountains of running water. The effect was breathtaking, creating unique, beautiful sculptures of water that only existed for a mere fragment of a second. Some looked like a row of diamonds, others had the appearance of glass. There was something poignant about the way these beautiful objects were gone before we could begin to savour them. A bit like being young.

I rushed through the remaining exhibits, reluctantly missing what looked like a very impressive piece by Iván Navarro, which did something clever with mirrors. I shall have to go back.

Outside it was nearly dark. London is not a beautiful city, but I almost like it at twilight:

Conveniently, the concert was next door. I'd gone to support a friend who was performing in a choir, but would have happily gone anyway, as the programme contained this beautiful folk song arrangement by Vaughan Williams:


I really enjoyed the concert. The music was well-chosen and the standard of singing was exceptional compared to the quivering, geriatric voices of most choral societies. I'd forgotten how beautiful the human voice was.

On the journey home I found an empty seat and got out my history of MI6 - I've become slightly obsessed with the SIS during the last couple of months, particularly its activities during the Cold War era. As I started reading the train halted and I absent-mindedly looked out of the window. Spookily, right in front of me was the SIS Building, with its satellite dishes pointing towards the four corners of the globe.

I had to change trains at Clapham Junction. I was hungry and looked for something to eat, but although there were plenty of outlets, they all seemed to sell the same food. If you don't like croissants with ham and cheese, cholesterol-raising pasties or diabetes-inducing pastries, you're buggered. I went without.

The train to Lewes was blissfully empty, but this didn't stop a young woman sitting next to me and getting out her knitting. I quickly discovered how hard it was to concentrate on reading with a knitting needle popping into your line of vision.

I will add knitting on trains to the very long list of things I intend to ban when I become Prime Minister in 2027.