When Dr . Johnson was talking about not being bored, he had it a lot easier than I do. Museums were in their infancy, there were only a few theatres and cinema wasn’t a twinkle in its fathers eye. Enough was going on to keep him entertained, but I’m guessing his brain wasn’t about to explode with options every Tuesday when Time Out was published.
My problem isn’t boredom, though my children claim to suffer pretty regularly, but too much choice. Living in London I could literally do five things every single day and still not do everything I want to. That’s before you factor in all the books I want to read, films I want to watch and family and friends I want to see. Add in kids who need to spend some time at home watching TV and fiddling with stuff and it’s hardly surprising that my head’s spinning.
In the last couple of weeks I’ve been to a photo exhibition which made me laugh out loud, moved me, and has stayed with me ever since; been to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime at the theatre, a thought provoking evening with some gasp moments, taken the kids to an exhibition of objects confiscated by a teacher which we’ve been talking about all week, seen breathtaking fire art at Kensington Palace, and frolicked in a room literally half filled with balloons. I’ve not been bored, far from it, but still there could have been more.
I could have attended the world thumb wresting championships, a taxidermy workshop, a punk science comedy show or a movement workshop inspired by the workings of the human body. All of which I would have probably really enjoyed, except for possibly the last one, though I would like to be able to say that I stand corrected, if I had the time to try. I could probably write about things to do in London all day every day and not run out. For ever.
Which leaves me feeling like time is slipping through my fingers, because there will simply never be enough. If I think too hard about it I get slightly panicky.
This, I guess, is why I don’t blog very often.