Soothing the Savage Breast

It's been a week of music and shrinks. There was also some restoration comedy in there, which befits a post that begins with a Congreve quote. And no, it isn't "savage beast." Look it up if you don't believe me.

After his class on Wednesday, Phil was offered a free ticket to an early eighteenth-century comedy by Farquahr, The Beaux' Stratagem. Despite the pelting rain he took it. He bussed to the National Theatre and saw an excellent production of the sentimentalized seduction farce. The drama students from the London Programme were delighted by the play, but Phil overheard two other young people from another university discussing it afterward.

Student 1: That's three hours of my life I can never get back.
Student 2: We could have been watching Lord of the Rings!

Oy.

Thursday dawned bright and sunny, and I headed off to the Foundling Museum to meet Sue and her great-nephew Alfie for something called  Bach and Baby. Alfie is an actual baby, so we didn't feel out of place. We went into what is called the Handel room -- for good reason, as it is festooned with paintings of Handel. It turns out that both Handel and Hogarth were great contributors to what in their day was a foundling hospital. The room was filled with mums and babies -- babies crawling, wailing, toddling, listening intently. A pianist played Beethoven and Grieg, and the babies reacted in a variety of ways: singing along, shrieking, dancing, falling asleep. Alfie was transfixed -- slightly by the music, and enormously by the cute baby sitting next to us, who had mastered clapping.

We had coffee afterward in the museum café (where they piped in Handel, of course), and then strolled with Alfie through the nearby park, where walkers are only allowed if they are accompanied by a child.


After I returned home, Phil set out to meet Klauser in Hampstead for a visit to the Freud Museum. I will not relate his mishaps on public transportation, though you might note my use of the plural. He did arrive on time, and found the museum fascinating. The study

is pretty nearly an exact replica of Freud's study in Vienna, whence he had to flee the Nazis in 1938. He brought all his furniture with him to London, including the famous psychoanalytic couch, and his daughter Anna reconstructed the Viennese office for him.

On Saturday, another warm and sunny day, we took Sue and Klauser to the priory church of the order of St. John, rather confusingly across the street from the museum (see previous entry). A group of student musicians, the Wild Street Ensemble, was giving a concert of Baroque music -- Bach, Scarlatti, and Handel. I am a huge fan of the baroque (if it ain't baroque...); my knowledge of and interest in history, art, and music more or less end with the start of the eighteenth century. We sat in the pretty church interior and heard some lovely music. Phil liked the Scarlatti guitar solo, Sue preferred the soprano, Klauser

admired the Bach cello soloist, and I thought the mezzo had a beautiful voice. We all agreed that the flautist was superior (some of us also found him slightly attractive). Then back to the apartment for dinner -- butternut squash soup and, as Sue's choice, sauteed calves liver, which Phil cooked with onions and pancetta. I must tell you, dear reader, that I ate my portion. The onions and pancetta were delicious. A pleasant sherry, chosen at a sherry tasting (this is what we do when we're not at the pubs), a spectacular burgundy courtesy of Klauser to wash down the liver, and a port to accompany poached pears with creme fraiche and honey left us quite a ways beyond replete.

Here are a few peculiar events that have happened this week.

• Our oven decided to blow all the fuses in the apartment. The apartment managers showed up a couple of days later with a new microwave, though our microwave was fine. They left the new one and then brought us a shiny new oven as well.
• The internet company came to replace our router, which was working perfectly. The new one did not work. A certain amount of yelling resulted.
• I ordered a polka-dotted raincoat from an online store, and received instead a pair of black suede sandals. The oddest thing is that they are my size. Those of you who know my feet will be aware of how unlikely this is. Unfortunately I don't need sandals. Also they are ugly.

And our pubs for the week:

the only pub in the neighborhood where the rugby enthusiasts
hadn't completely overrun the place for the Rugby World Cup

named after Lady Ottoline Violet Anne Morrell,
my new hero - elegant, and one of our favorites