Chapter
4
May/June
2000
As I prepared
to leave for the states, everybody on the mews was preparing
summer plantings apace! Pots and tubs are full of growing
things, and the greenery and flowers alongside the doorways
is wonderful to see! There are lilacs and rhododendrons in
the parks now, and yet more flowering trees. We went to the
Clifton St. nursery to buy tomatoes and bedding flowers Sunday
morning. Beth and Bob have three new pots to replace the stolen
ones, and Kathy started us some sweet peas in a pot. They
should run up the poles we put in for them. I can hardly wait
to return to see how things are growing.
Have you
seen BBC¹s Father Ted on television? It¹s a wacky
irreverent comedy about a tall graying priest on a remote
Irish island. He¹s saddled with a bug-eyed clueless young
assistant Dougall and vicious Father Jack, the pastor, usually
snarling ³drink!² from his armchair or sleeping
off a bender. He¹s even been drinking furniture polish
after the liquor cabinet ran dry. The fathers are cared for
by a devoted housekeeper, dim and humorless Mrs. Dugan. She
may pipe, ³Have a sandwigge now!² On refusal, eyebrows
skyward, ³.... They¹re diii-agonal!² Their
accents, asides, and peppering with ³feck² and ³fur
th¹ luvva Chroist² as they mess up simple tasks
or are foolishly caught in fibs amazes us that it plays without
causing riots! In one scene, the bishop slips into a bath
tub full of bubbles and a sweet young thing. I read that it¹s
one of the favorite two shows of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
It seems to be in reruns, so we don¹t know if it¹s
been around for awhile.
London¹s
election for mayor is on, and the colorful Livingston will
win. He is far left, called ³Red Ken² in the past
for communist leanings, and was part of the London council
that Maggie Thatcher abolished. This city, the banking capitol
of Europe, yet run by a mayor outspoken on the evils of capitalism,
should be interesting. (This is different from the Lord Mayor,
the chief executive of The City, the mile-sized banking and
financial area of London, run by the corporation and guilds.
Even the Queen must ask permission before entering the City.)
Livingston broke from his party after he was displeased by
Tony Blair¹s choice of another Laborite, who has awakened
only electorate yawns, and who last week married his roommate
of 5 years. (Much of England today eschews marriage.) Quaint
Victorian London doesn¹t exist: a quarter of the city
is black or Asian, political correctness is de rigeur, and
television programming leaves little to the imagination. A
C of E minister is heading for a sex change operation, supported
by his bishop, parish, and two past wives. Another change:
London¹s pea soup fogs have lifted, thanks to the demise
of coal fires and leaded petrol. Air is cleaner and buildings
are no longer veiled in black grime. However, open the windows
and immediately everything inside is covered with a fine layer
of sooty grit.
I have
mentioned it¹s difficult to establish newspaper delivery
or phone service. Newcomers need yello pages to help arrange
all the moving in. We got yellow pages the last week of June,
promised for April, which for new residents (i.e. us) is really
irritating. We¹d been told they¹d run out, and the
new ones weren¹t yet printed. When I called BT, April
being past, I was told they didn¹t actually send the
books, but was given another number. Since it was a bank holiday,
no one answered, nor was there a message machine. Everyone¹s
phone number is changed systemwide anyway, the third time
in ten years for London, so numbers in guidebooks and brochures
no longer work.
Our garbage
disposal was on order for 2 weeks when a simple trip to a
home store could¹ve solved the problem. The TV cable
broke after we played a tape, and I was told they¹d send
a new remote. When I inquired about the delay, I learned they
were awaiting a shipment of remotes. We got two remotes, finally,
but the repairman came anyway to fix the cable, since remotes
weren¹t the problem after all. I¹m refusing to pay
the cable people. AOL people here are also a headache. Tech
aid is in Dublin, and their web pages and method of doing
business are ponderous. I marvel that the empire has lasted
this long and have new respect for muddling through.
June 2000
I¹m
back from the US having visited kids, grandkids, and my mom
in five different states, and painting for a week in St. Michael¹s
MD with artist friends. I was so busy I¹m not sure if
it was a vacation or marathon, and I missed doing many things
I¹d planned, but it was wonderful. I dragged a friend
at midnight to hear Pat and his band, The Stingers, on Austin¹s
Sixth St. at the Black Cat. I golfed, lunched, and visited,
In DC I shopped, read to grands (one of my favorite things),
and babysat. I attended a Pokeman sixth birthday for Tim in
Bethesda, (did face painting and decorated a cake a la Pokeman)
and in Rochester I visited Mom, attended a graduation party
for nurse practitioner niece Katie. When I left Austin I was
teary, as usual, because I really love the city and the people
in it. Our house looks less loved and needs yard care, but
otherwise is OK, with tenants. In Atlanta, I met Mike, who
became the newest fellow for the American Acoustical Society
and our son Ted joined us for the hotel award dinner.
After
a couple of days to unpack and attack mail and laundry, Austin
friends came by for lunch, then we toured the Wallace Collection.
En route home, we stopped at Selfridge¹s department store,
and I bought Clinique makeup from a pretty young woman in
a white Moslem kerchief over a white dress, and purchased
greeting cards next to two young women wearing black kercheifs,
elaborately edged in beading and black stones, over their
long black dresses. This is a multicultural city, as this
month¹s National Geographic article on London points
out! Peg and I had a middle eastern dinner at nearby Safa,
off Edgware Road. It¹s Turkish and Iranian. The flat
bread dough is rolled, then tossed onto the side of a silver
pipe stove, where it sticks until it¹s cooked, then is
unpeeled and served hot, with several dishes of dips. Delicious!
The next
day, Carol and I met at the new Tate while Peg visited her
English cousin. We enjoyed the work in this huge new museum
on the Thames, formerly a power station and now two days old.
It will hold modern works and the ³old² Tate across
the river will continue showing its vast selection of historic
art. Carol, a docent with me in Austin, and I both disliked
the sign placement, since it was hard to associate the words
with the art. It was too far away! The collection varies,
from an enormous black spider sculpture by Louise Burgois
which overlooks the vast entry hall, to large films of naked
men, one featuring solo dancing, the other two men wrestling.
A group of young schoolboys collapsed with laughter leaving
the dark viewing area, perhaps from amazement more than amusement.
In front of the huge brick plant, we saw workmen furiously
working to complete the silvery walking bridge that spans
the Thames, due to open to the public the next day. On the
other side, St. Paul¹s loomed across the busy river.
The overlooks
from museum windows to river are a delight, but there is a
serious furniture shortage! Perhaps it¹s on order. Luckily,
someone left and we snagged a stool. That evening we girls
met at the Savoy Hotel for dinner, joined by my neighbor Sue.
Then we viewed a fantastic performance by Maggie Smith in
The Lady in the Van. The script and cast could not have been
better: wit, finesse, perfect staging--and great seats. An
old woman becomes a part of a neighborhood as her van moves
down the street, finally stopping at the irritated playwright¹s
door. (He is played by two actors, his ego and alter ego.)
We met
Mike at home, newly back from the states ‹again‹
for a nightcap on our cool roof terrace to end a humid but
wonderful day. On Friday, Peg visited her aunt, Mike worked,
and more friends flew in from their working trip in Brussels,
but after quickly catching up, we left them for the evening.
Mike and
I walked to the old Victory Hotel nearby, set up to house
WWII servicemen. Mike wore his tux and I my latest Neiman
Marcus ³Last Call² purchase: a black sequined top,
originally $855, marked to $299, less 75%. (Did I save $780?
How I miss that store!) I the frayed but serviceable hotel,
after the band played the national anthems of the US and Britain,
we celebrated the 100th birthday of U.S. Submarines by lighting
a candle for each of the ships lost, and blessing the 3600
men still on Eternal Patrol. As usual, the youngest and oldest
members participated. (Mike determined that his gold submarine
dolphins were the oldest in the room, which was immaterial,
since he wasn¹t on active duty.)
We were
wined and dined while Admiral Terpstra, gave the address.
Afterwards, we danced to a DJ, and marveled at some fast moves
of modern sailors before a quiet walk home and lots of reminiscing.
We met officer children of our old friends, and learned lots
of old stories: Mike¹s vocabulary once sent stymied men
to the dictionary, and Eileen was the secret love of lieutenants.
It was great fun, and we were delighted to be a part of such
a rich celebration, especially since we were so far from parties
in the states. It seems a lifetime ago that Mike spent nearly
ten years under the sea. (They say a Navy marriage is happy
half the time: you pick which half.) Today there are even
e-mail systems for communicating, unlike our once-a-month
15 word familygrams. First word his name, last word yours,
and no visibly dirty stuff! We loved the challenge and all
the fleet read and shared the good ones. In case of a birth
or death, we got an extra familygram.
Saturday
morning early we left for the Trooping of the Colors at Whitehall.
We sat in the top row of the bleachers (in the shade) at Horseguard
Parade on a perfect sunny day, after passing through metal
detectors. Many spectators wore ³smart dress². Each
military band marched in following their music we heard from
afar, leading troops ceremoniously down the street, row after
row. All the queen¹s horses and all the queen¹s
men gathered in the sunshine, finally, in a pinpoint review
that lasted for 2 1/2 hours. Metal helmets, brass buttons,
gold and silver braid, and swords gleamed, plaid kilts and
solid capes flowed in the breeze, and shiny black boots strode
back and forth in perfect synchronization. There was no false
step, with precision shouted commands and complex marching
maneuvers. The horses were matched for color, some pulling
carriages, and lines of spirited black strutters carried one
regiment, while brown or white massed for others.
Afterwards
we headed to Green Park, lured by loud booms. The parade cannons
on horse-drawn cassions had been pulled into a clearing, and
after each roaring explosion, there floated a huge rising
cloud of smoke with the acrid smell of gunpowder, Echoes rang
through the green leafy trees. One riderless horse got away,
bolting around the hundreds of spectators on the lawns. I
had sent for the tickets months earlier, but it appeared that
by standing at the fence nearby, latecomers might see much
of the parade.
Saturday
evening, six of us had drinks at the house and we walked to
an excellent dinner at Al San Vincenzo, then ended the evening
on our breezy roof under a half moon and stars. Sunday morning,
we walked through Hyde Park with Bill and Sandy to the lengthy
Pentecost mass at the Oratory, then brunch at busy, noisy,
delicious Patisserie Valerie across Brompton Road. We walked
home past skaters and bikers whizzing past Prince Albert and
Kensington Palace, and took in the Sunday art show hanging
along the Hyde Park fence on Bayswater Road. Each artist has
a numbered space, painted on the pavement; many appear rain
or shine, sometimes hovering under plastic sheets or huddled
in nearby cars. Bill and Mike walked to Mike¹s office
later.
That evening
we crossed the park again to visit Austin friend Judy Hayes.
Her daughter Moni hosted, and granddaughter Chelsea played
the piano for us; we learned the 7 layers of the atmosphere
from third grade science. We chose the TV and plants we wanted
when Moni soon moves, and were feted with a fantastic dinner
of roast lamb. Judy won¹t buy beef here because of mad
cow disease. Moni Œs reward was Mike¹s successfully
wiring her lamp from the Greenwich market stalls, assisted
by Chelsea, handing him tools like a nurse to a surgeon. (Mike
pointed out the irony of a Monica and Chelsea in a family
unrelated to the Clintons.) At dinner, we discussed science,
dope, and sex, with Mike failing to redirect the conversation
to science! (It¹s a joke in our family that we can¹t
discuss anything spicier than cotton underwear at the table
without disturbing Mike. This is a person who has seen and
heard it all, and then some, on his ships!) Monday at dawn
we sleepily left for Paris as Sandy and Bill left for home.
The chunnel trip was calm, and since we went first class,
we got a snack and glass of wine. I like European trains:
your luggage can¹t get lost, because it¹s with you.
Paris
is beautiful and our weather was perfect for enjoying the
massive carved stone bridges and grand boulevards. We arrived
on the day after Pentecost, a holiday, so streets were jammed
with sightseers, and we were lucky to have a room at the Hotel
Nikko, the JAL building, a big impersonal red box, but close
to the Eiffel Tower. From a bustling sidewalk café,
we dined and watched the tower blink wildly in the dark, wired
with millions of exploding tiny stars. For ten minutes on
the hour, starting at ten, it¹s a special year-long millennium
display. ³An 2000² (the year 2000) is lit on the
front of the enormous structure, where people above on the
decks look like ants from below. You can¹t imagine the
size without being up close. People from every nation are
nearby, many pointing cameras. The Nikko is also close to
the French Statue of Liberty, an American gift smaller than
the original Lady Liberty, on the isle farther up the Seine
from the Ile de France. It was given by Americans to celebrate
the centennial of the 1789 Revolution, and we saw it from
our room. France has lit all their Paris bridges for the millennium,
which is quite a contrast from England¹s expensive, unused,
and boring Dome. Paris has a walking bridge over the river
thatis closed because of excess sway. Now, I read in the paper
in Paris, so does London and Japan. The new bridge will be
repaired and reopened in a few months.
We ate
one evening in the Marais, an area supposedly trés
courant, trés chic, but perhaps we didn¹t find
the right streets. However, our outdoor café across
from a beautiful park served fantastic food, even if Mike
had to make 2 trips to find the nearest ATM, since they didn¹t
accept credit cards. For our inconvenience, we were given
complimentary kir. We met friends Wednesday for dinner at
Bofinger, a venerable and beautifully decorated Aslatian brasserie
near the Bastille metro. The ceiling dome window is colored
glass flowers in a fanciful golden design. Thursday we met
University friends and we dined al fresco near St. Germain
de Pres next to the Fountain of Mars. They had an apartment
nearby while he worked, but she returned to Austin the next
day, also to work.
On Tuesday,
I finally visited Giverny. Once, I had missed the train, and
once I learned at the station that the gardens were closed.
This time, I took a bus tour with a hotel pickup, and allowed
myself to be shuffled into the chaotic tour office and organized
into the proper lines and bus queues. Although I was delighted
with the opportunity, I¹m not sure what Claude and Alice
would have thought about hordes of visitors pouring out of
busses and cars, with cameras, videos, strollers, crutches,
and backpacks. People hovered over pansies and ponds, peering
through viewfinders or discussing le scene into their cameras
for future audiences. Long lines queued to enter the house,
and a dense crowd stuffed the tunnel now beneath the narrow
road that served Monet as a tiny rail line. Walter Annenburg
donated funds to save the masses from road death by tour bus,
but the claustrophobic are forewarned of the tunnel¹s
overcrowding. One way traffic might be a necessity. Many visitors
I saw were infirm or just slow, blocking narrow passageways.
However,
Monsieur Claude¹s fleurs themselves put on a great show,
row upon row bobbing in soft breezes. The water lily ponds
and Japanese bridge were just what I expected, filled with
serenity and ever changing reflected light and shapes. I could
see how, in more normal circumstances, Claude would have painted
happily there. And I loved the big bright yellow dining room
and blue tiled kitchen, complete with a cat curled on one
of the tables! Monet kept five gardeners busy, and he and
Alice entertained people from around the world. He chose flowers
and planned their settings. The white turkeys like those in
his paintings were nearby in grassy cages, and there were
chickens too, perhaps for fresh omlets. Outside the rear exit
is a little ice cream stand that seemed as busy as the enormous
shop inside the complex.
We transferred
Wednesday to the Hotel d¹Orsay, formerly the Solferino
now transformed by a makeover. No more funky little apples
on white wallpaper, and our bathroom had double sinks! However,
two large people should not attempt to sleep in one regular
size double bed unless it is below freezing outside. I walked
over to les Invalides to see Napolean¹s tomb and the
museum rooms filled with armor, banners, and bullets from
the dawn of France to now. The rest of the area is used as
it was originally intended, as a hospital, with veterans sitting
in the green manicured garden. Mike¹s dad would not have
recognized such fine surroundings, so unlike the aged VA hospital
where he died in the US. We walked and walked, rode the Bateau
Mouche down the Seine in the evening, and in general had a
wonderful time. We toured Picasso¹s sculptures at the
Pompidieu Museum, as amazed as everyone else with the boundless
curiosity and vigor of the man. Since the computers were down,
we were let in for free. Despite Mike¹s desires, we never
did get on the ferris wheel at the Place de la Concorde, (During
the day it was too hot and at night the lines were long.)
On our last night we watched a crowd gathered in front of
the Hotel de Ville and Notre Dame watch the Euro 2000 games
on a giant TV screen.
We ate
across from Norte Dame, sitting next to a couple with their
small white dog seated on the third dining chair. Walking
home, we were stopped nearby by police. Seconds later, thousands
of rollerbladers whizzed by, plus a few scooters and bike
riders, even a few skateboards, all gliding along at a mile
a minute, most with no pads or helmets, mostly young, and
all happy. We joined crowds of encouraging gawkers, yelling
with the crowd. (Something like Hip Hip Hoo-ray, je ne suis
pas fatigué!) The next day our cab driver told me that
it happens every Friday evening. People like to say that Paris
is unfriendly, but I¹ve never felt that way!
Mike visited
his office over the weekend and traveled to a meeting in Washington.
Here the short heat wave was oppressive, with humidity sitting
heavily, but blessed rain finally cooled thing. Britain was
shamed by hooligans at Euro 2000, with the requisite drunkenness
seen at football matches. What a contrast to the discipline
of the parades! Other countries nearby yank passports, denying
hooligans and yobs the opportunity to terrorize opponents.
This week at home, I am getting carpet cleaned, shirts laundered,
groceries bought, bills paid, and enjoying the first real
break since late April. We¹ve had mostly chilly windy
days, and today when I closed the study window, the old sash
cord broke. I wonder how old it is? Our building dates from
the 1850¹s.
Under
very dark clouds buffeted by strong wind, I played 9 holes
of golf at Duke¹s Meadows, with Mary, an Austrian choral
music teacher and director. She has a car and knows the city
well because she lived in London when she was younger; now
she¹s an attractive widow, new to golf. We walked, as
everyone does here, with pull carts, though many carry their
clubs. I wore a windbreaker and wished I¹d worn a hat
rather than a visor, to protect my head from damp winds. The
course accepts the public‹it¹s a pretty little par
three with some water and a few vicious bunkers. It¹s
very much like playing at a small public club in the states,
and it¹s tucked away in greenery on the western side
of town, down a lane just off the Chiswick main road.
There
is hardly a block in London not covered someplace with scaffolding.
Because of the Heathrow Express success, Paddington is converting
the gigantic hotel that sits over its railway station. Work
is scheduled for completion in a year by Hilton, but since
we arrived, the it¹s been sheathed in metal scaffolding,
pipes, and white plastic, and the street below is filled with
messy skips (dumpsters) and hard hatted workers. There are
numerous shops and restaurants in the vast train station,
including Dixon¹s for electronics and WHSmith for books
and papers, plus the Paddington Bear kiosk, since in the story,
he was originally found there, stowed away ³from darkest
Peru². I stopped there in Sainsbury¹s for groceries
on the way back from the post office, next door‹all in
my Œhood. Real estate values have risen 35%, more than
other areas of town, though our prices don¹t come close
to those of Mayfair and Belgravia. Here, the average 2 bedroom
flat can be had for £330,000, about $530,000. In Knightsbridge,
they¹re half a million pounds. Homes are higher, as are
mews homes. (When falconry was fashionable, birds mewed, and
were kept in a mews.)
Restaurants,
hotels, and homes everywhere along the way are painting, now
that the weather, theoretically, is good. House painters here
are ³decorators.² Students here don¹t take
math, but maths. They don¹t study; they revise. That¹s
what Prince Wills was doing this week when he missed his 18th
birthday party at Granny Elizabeth¹s. The party also
marked Aunt Margaret¹s 70th and Great Granny Mum¹s
100th. Camilla was not invited, but her ex-husband was. However,
she and Charles were seen together officially for the second
time.
I have
registered for the NHS, the National Health Service. It¹s
daily flamed in the news because of shortages of medicines
and long waiting lists for surgical operations. (A doctor¹s
office is called the surgery.) However, I filled out a couple
of forms and saw a nurse, who took history, blood pressure,
and weight data. This all is determined by where I live. At
the beauty salon, I¹d mentioned I hadn¹t yet signed
up. The beautician indicated a new office across the street
where I was refused because I lived a district over. My doctor¹s
surgery is in Connaught Square, a lovely Georgian block nearby.
Brick attached homes with elegant doorways surround an iron-fenced
formal garden, and the address is often mentioned in books
I¹ve been reading. There is no way to indicate it¹s
not a home: a small brass plaque on the door reads Dr. Ruth
O¹Hare.
I¹m
reading Georgiana, Dutchess of Devonshire. Women of her time
were expected to give their husband a legitimate heir before
having affairs. She, fabulously rich after what proved to
be a loveless marriage at 17, hosted dinners for politicians,
consulted with Fox, the Whig prime minister, and had the French
ambassadors and George IV eating out of her hand. She wrote
copiously and set fashions for the nation‹the Di of her
day. One hairdo piled hair up as high as possible, using coils
and additions, then decorated it with birdcages, or even a
three masted ship with all sails flying. The disadvantage
of that particular style was that women had to sit on the
floor of their carriage. Fox supporters wore blue and beige,
and fox tails. George III despised the Whigs and even considered
resigning his office and returning to Germany. But, of course,
he went mad.
Today
as I write, Ted is 37. It seems like I was just 37, when I
sold real estate in Charleston! The years are flying by, faster
and faster. Today was also a red letter day on Edgeware Road.
Wooly¹s (Woolworth¹s to you) new addition had a
grand opening, with clowns on stilts and a Dixieland band
in front of the store at 11, and huge bunches of big red helium
balloons given away on both sides of the busy, noisy, dirty
road. Only a few flew up to the sky. Wooly¹s may have
the largest candy department of any store I¹ve ever seen!
This has
been the most wonderful week of catching up‹just what
I needed. At last I can see the desk. I haven¹t painted.
It¹s been so cool it¹s easy to stay in. I have lived
here since February 6, about 4 1/2 months. With 4 1/2 weeks
in the states and about 3 weeks out of town, my time here
has been about 3 months, and I feel fairly settled in now,
so that everyday events here seem normal. Friday, my reward
for working all week is joining friends at the Regents Park
Flower Show. Tents and plant arrangements covered acres, and
there were also bee keepers and rhubarb forcers and gas heaters
and lots more to coo over, aside from brilliant orchids and
vast numbers of ferns, roses, trees, bedding plants and exotica.
We lunched at Patisserie Valerie on Marleybone High St. afterwards
and walked home.
Mike returned
and on Sunday we attended St. Paul¹s Cathedral, Christopher
Wren¹s huge legacy. A church to St. Paul has been there
since 604. Wren built starting in 1675 after the original
huge Norman stone edifice burnt down in the Great Fire of
London in 1666, in a place of worship used even before the
Romans. The job took thirty five years. Wren had himself hoisted
into the high domes even at the end of his life to oversee
building. He was also an astronomer, a scientist, and mathematician,
who invented a machine to knit nine pairs of stockings simultaneously.
He died at 91 in 1723.
The domes
are the world¹s largest after St. Peter¹s, but most
are unadorned gray stone except for the golden mosaic domes
in the choir from Victoria¹s time. The organ is the third
largest in the UK, with over 7000 pipes, and the offertory
hymn was Eternal Father, which undid me! I can¹t dissociate
it from Navy services, especially funerals. After mass, with
music by a fine visiting choir, we walked through the church,
marveling at all the monuments and statues in the side aisles.
Besides royals, there were many to soldiers and statesmen,
who often died young in battles for Queen and country. Nelson
and Wellington memorials are there, and John Donne, a dean
of the cathedral, JMW Turner, Capt. Robert Scott, Alexander
Fleming, Joshua Reynolds, and more. Downstairs is the grand
tomb of Arthur, Duke of Wellington, along with many other
graves and monuments, including one to George Washington,
and we stopped for lunch at the Crypt Café there, near
the shop. Delicious!
We were
happy to welcome the Ollers for dinner. The last time we saw
Sophie, she was small, visiting San Diego and in awe of our
scottie Rhoda. (She doesn¹t remember.) Now she¹s
a tall high schooler with two younger brothers to keep in
line. As we walked through Hyde Park in the evening, visiting
Prince Albert for a photo, Devon and Scott had other ideas.
They have a millennium trip ahead to France and Germany after
this, and it was a great pleasure to catch up on their lives.
We close
the month with a visit from from a Methodist pastor, here
for an exchange summer with a British pastor. The Methodists,
like Anglicans, suffer massive attendance drops here and are
discussing rejoining C of E, the church John Wesley left,
deeming it too papist. They¹ve been out and about, and
managed to get tickets for Whistle on the Wind and Lion King.
While they run, I¹m packing for Janette and George¹s
mega-gala Saturday, after which I leave for Italy for two
weeks of painting. We also wait to hear of our Yankee Doodle
grandson, due July 4. It looks like a busy summer, but Mike
claims his long trips are over until fall.
Chapter
I
February
2000: Getting Settled
Chapter
2
March 2000:
Merchant Taylor Hall, Brighton, Cambridge, Guildhall, Brussels
Chapter
3
April 2000
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