Whilst working quietly in this attractively Bernard Nevill-esque lounge—with its eclectic selection of low leather chairs, cowhide stools and timber floors strewn with patchwork rugs—I’ve never overheard so much chatter about ‘what God was telling me’. If I was a local evangelist, I’d have put my celestial mobile on Do Not Disturb by now.
I’ve tried on three occasions now to endure—without breaking a sweat and clambering for balance—Pärt’s musical setting of St Patrick’s Breastplate, ‘The Deer’s Cry’. Admittedly, I’ve only conducted the experiment within the auditory confines of a good set of Sennheiser headphones, but even so, it’s only four minutes of music. I’ve tried focusing on how much I despise slavish religious texts, but no joy: within two minutes it floors me.
Social media’s fantastic for curating your public image. By the end of the night, I’ll have my pants around my ankles in the Latin Quarter, clinging onto half a bottle of gin and dancing like @Luke Reynolds. And all you lot will see is me looking like a smug git with a bottle of Champagne. ✌🏻
Heartbroken by Jarrett in Vienna this evening; stepping out of Gesellschaft I looked like Marco Rubio after a session with Donald Trump. 🏊 I thought I’d already experienced every musical emotion. Wrong again.
Breathtaking architecture. Beguiling historiography. Terrible coffee. ☕️