Oooh Rrrrrenoir

Here's a picture of my garden. Look at the palm trees sway in the breeze. After a day of frustration at not being able to get the internet to work at home - and resorting to reading dissertation-related topics in library books (I ask you!) - I headed into town to the National Gallery to catch the Renoir exhibition before the doors close for good next Saturday. I hadn't been that bothered about seeing this, and several people I know who are generally of sound mind had told me that they were not particularly impressed. Not impressed by an impressionist? Well, I beg to differ. Expecting a bunch of pretty-pretty-chocolate-boxy offerings, I was pleased to see it was nothing of the sort. The paintings were fantastic. Renoir made most of his money through his work as a portraitist, so he could afford to be experimental with his landscapes, and this comes through. However, it's not until you step back from the paintings and view them from 15-20 feet away that you can appreciate the skill. Top notch. An 8 out of 10 from me.

Afterwards I was dragged kicking and screaming to the watering hole known as the Round Table off Charing Cross Road for a couple of pints of the barman's finest before shuffling off home. I was greeted by Jude who delighted in the fact that in the hour and a half she had been home alone she had succeeded in chewing off the scab on her wound which I had been carefully nurturing and protecting all day. What can you do?