In dream.

{Wandering through the Tate Modern all of the day and all of the night.}

I have been to galleries and museums for the main, and with eyes wide and feeling something of a village mouse, I wandered through room after room in the Natural History Museum, V&A, Tate Modern, Tate Britain, National Gallery, Saatchi Gallery, Ashmolean, Royal Academy of Arts, Wallace Collection, Les Arts Decoratifs, le Louvre, Musée d’Orsay and the Centre Pompidou (some more than twice and most for hour and hour upon end, many until close). I marvelled at the collections held within or of the Sir John Soane Museum, Bodleian Library, Courtauld Gallery, Leighton House Museum, British Museum, and Queen’s Gallery. I saw paintings familiar previously as lecture slide or within book pages. I am little short of awe-inspired by it all, and now home I have only just woken from a long sleep confused as to my true location. Looking about me, I wondered: where am I? Twenty-two hours on the plane will do that, I expect. From London’s tube to Heathrow to Singapore airport and finally Melbourne at 6am, it’s been a whirl preceded by a whirl. And a whirl few would refuse. Slowly, the room becomes familiar to my eyes and I realise I am home. For a moment there, a long moment, I thought I had gone to sleep in a museum exhibit and was soon to be moved on by guards. I thought, I’m sure, I was in the V&A in one of many rooms, asleep, and thinking how ever will I move on when all I want to do is sleep; however will I wake self enough to shuffle back to room when body has been replaced by lead or other heavy metal.

N.B. Since typing this post in wait for many photos to be sorted and shuffled, this has happened to me every morning since my return six sleeps ago now. Museum and gallery fatigue?