Today I met HRH Prince Michael of Kent

Can you believe it: today I've met HRH Prince Michael of Kent!
I was seeing (professionally for my book: Inspector Morse and Hercule Poirot have an episode playing in this building) an exhibition in Freemasons' Hall in London. This imposing  Art Deco monument was built in 1933, and the United Grand Lodge of England is the governing body of Freemasonary of England, Wales and the Channel Islands.
Today a big meeting took place - you saw a lot of distinguished gentlemen in elegant black suits. Thus we were only allowed to see the remarkable exhibition in the library instead of getting the (free) tour round the building.
But by chance I found a guide: a lovely, very well-informed man who showed me around, and when I asked him he admitted that he was a Freemason himself, and so I learned a lot.  In one display cabinet he showed me "the Lewis"  (I instantly thought of Inspector Morse's sidekick) - an implement used for lifting heavy blocks of stone. It is inserted into the top of the stone and signifies "strength and is the emblem of the eldest son of the mason. When conjoined with the Perfect Ashlaw it symbolises the son supporting the parent. "
The Freemasons do not advertise or make proselytes: you have to ask to be allowed to become a member. And - that was new to me - you can be of any religion (or none - as long as you believe in a Higher Being). I knew that Catholics for a very long time were forebidden by the Pope Clement XII to swear the oath of Freemasonary - if they did, they were excommunicated.
I love the little stories.
In 1730 the German Catholics who intended to join Freemasonary but were not allowed created 'The Order of the Mopses' (Mops is the German word for the dog 'pug' - that was their symbol - and because they had not to swear an oath the Catholic Church could not excommunicate them.

Another very interesting story: 

 

In 1934, soon after Adolf Hitler's rise of Power, the German Grand Lodge of the Sun in Bayreuth recognised the danger to Freemasonary, because the Nazis hated them and confiscated their property. So they elected the 'Forget-Me-Not" in lieu of the traditional Square and Compass emblem as a mark of identity for Masons (...) - throughout the wholeNazi-era that little blue flower marked a Brother.'
By the way: there are Sisters now too - though in different Lodges.
While the visitor told me these and other interesting facts, he suddenly draw me near him and bowed his head; I thought: 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do' and followed: HRH Prince Michael of Kent, who is the current Grand Master of the Mark Master Masons had entered the room, followed by two High Masons, and he smiled at us, then disappeared in the Grand Hall.

For more information see: www.freemasonry.london.museum

Henry VIII at Hampton Court

Can you imagine that in the short time I have been here in London I have visited Hampton Court twice?
First with my friend Anne, with whom I visited the Chelsea Flower Show, and then with Louise, my Facebook friend from Dover. Both times were so fabulous!

Of course coming twice did not escape the attention of Henry VIII - and so I met him in the courtyard. In his youth, they said, he was a beautiful man "with a very fine calf" - most important in those days, because they wore silk stockings (see, Tom: he wouldn't have faced any problems at the security control of an airport). We pondered on the role of women, marriage, love, faith and politics in those days. I don't envy them!

The weather was quite up and down - so at first we could throw only a few longing glances onto the gardens outside.

But then - lucky us - the sun came out and we really raptured. I have many fine photographs, also from the little Tudor Garden, but I will not bore you (more than I do by my daily 'telegrams' from London :-)  

We admired the Great Vine, planted in 1768  for King George by Lancelot Capability Brown. The plant in the hothouse is incredibly huge, and even up until 1920 the (numbered) Hampton Court grapes were only for the Royal Family. 
And behind these gates the Thames, "The river glideth at his own sweet will" - as William Wordsworth said in his poem 'Composed on Westminster Bridge'.

 For information see: http://www.hrp.org.uk/hamptoncourtpalace/

Digging up Time - the London Garden Museum

 NO - I DON'T want your guesses what this may be:

This indespensable Cucumber Straighter was developed around 1850 -  on one of their many holidays working assignments the agricultural ministers of the EU must have been here, and impressed created a new norm for the straight cucumber - you remember it? Sadly it was abolished - but there is hope that another backbencher will dig out the old joke useful norm again... Till then I'll have to drink my Pimm's No. 1 with crooked cucumbers - nothing is perfect... 
You see: I spent part of yesterday in The Garden Museum near Lambeth Palace. Once it had been a church, as you still can see:

It has a beautiful little walled garden with a knot-garden, designed by the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury after her famous knot garden in Hatfield House. (I was there at noon - that's why I won't show you a photo - they look like spinach). The border outside was done by the garden-designer Dan Pearson ("The Green-fuse"):

The museum has an excellent cafeteria with wonderful and unexpensive vegetarian food (they use goat cheese etc) - and is really worth a visit! www.gardenmuseum.org.uk
I talked a lot with the helpful volunteers, and promised that I will keep my eyes open for another ingenious device that the Victorians had developed (at first they thought I was joking - I could only convince them of my solemn sincerity by pointing at the cucumber straighter):
little appliances made out of wire, like a muzzle, that were bound around the mouth of guineas pigs - and allowed them to nibble the grass on the lawn to one exactly even size. No need for these noise-makers:

What made me a bit pensive and musing was how practical the English are - you have to look hard to see how the cycle of life works everywhere, and sometimes nearer as one thinks: Between the composters you see a venerable tomb.

A Day Like Milk And Honey - Visiting BATH

Royal Crescent

the river Avon

I was so lucky! The most beautiful weather made the honey coloured stones of Bath soft and welcoming. I saw so many gorgeous sights (and could take photographs for my working project too), that Picasa on Google will throw me out again if I post all the photos I like. So I have to choose, which isn't easy, as even the dinner in a quite normal restaurant was an architectural event:

And all the time I felt a bit like a figure in a novel of Jane Austen: like sitting in a georgeous ballroom and waiting who would appear - because, as you might know, I was to meet my fellow blogger, Tom Stephenson, for the first time and in person. 

The Assembly Rooms

When I read the blog of another person I get an impression, form a picture in my mind, and have a distinct vision how he or she will be. I'm so happy that I can assure you that I was right - a wonderful, witty and handsome man he is, and before you recommend me to plunge into the famous Roman Baths

 Roman Baths

 or even start to pray for my soul

Bath Abbey

 we were four: Tom, his lovely wife H.I. and  her daughter. We all talked so lively, that I managed just in time (running like a hare) to catch the train back to London.
Thank you all for a really lovely day!

 We'll meet again - in Bath or Berlin - and with Husband.

When Push comes to Shove

"Oh, that silly woman! Wait, we'll march through together", she said, putting her arms around me closely and pushing me in front of her through the opening barrier.
What had happened? I thought English people keep themselves to themselves - but this Lady gave me the closest body contact of the last 9 days! At Regent's Park tube exit a muddled woman in front of me had placed her handbag (!) on the place sign for oyster-cards, then marched on - hesitated - came back two steps ... her gates closed - but in the meantime I had put my traveler card into the slot of the machine - the gates opened - she marched through - but they were closed for me. (Good for the woman, come to think of it: the queue behind me gave her a few names I am eager to learn...)
Of course there was no assistant near - but, as you see, this damsel in distress, Yours Truly, was rescued by that courageous forceful maid who followed me. 
I then walked into Regent's Park (alone) - and visited Queen Mary's Rose Garden. But of the many, many roses there only 'Gertrude Jekyll' had opened her eyes (husband told me the same happens at the moment on my balcony in Berlin - as Getrude was a very stern and no-nonsense Victorian Lady-gardener and artist, neither cold nor rain can stop her (and of course I bought the rose named after her long time ago).

Though I saw I was right not to order "Sexy Rexy" (I believe that rose was named after the actor Rex Harrison, who earned that label) - but maybe the plants in Regent Park were just very young, baby vegetables, so to speak.
But the day itself: it brimmed over with sunshine.
Which I will try to capture with this cunning device: they little Ladybird-backpack contains a cord - so the mother has a grip on the child who can't get lost in a crowd.

"Puttin' on the Ritz" - or whatever you want

I always marvel when I catch that very special moment when something  is coming into reality, that weeks before was only an idea rushing through my head. There I started to think about it, planned, worried, stopped worrying (humming "What you focus on grows") - and then: a snap of the finger, and - whizz - I am actually here, standing on Trafalgar Square, or meeting my Facebook-friend Louise from Dover, or take a picture (precisely: 281 pictures) of the Chelsea Flower Show.
Now I am in London; having managed to bring my suitcase the long way through the tube, stopped worrying if someone will not be disillusioned by meeting me, and - wiser by being no spring chicken any more - I look left AND right when I cross the road, because I finally accept I will never learn that. 
I am here - in REALITY, not in dreamland! 
Above you (hopefully) see a dance from Top Hats - a musical I saw today - though it never crossed my mind that I ever would (normally I'm not much into musicals). Only a few days before, when Anne and I hastened through ice cold rain to Lincoln's Inn, she remarked: "Look - the Waldorf! And there - such a row of theatres with musicals!" 
And today I was sitting - well, not in the Waldorf - but in the musical Top Hats, because my lovely landlady invited me to a wonderful oldfashioned theatre with plushy seats, and a musical that gave us absolutely good spirits with its dishy tap dancers!  

This photo is not - as you might think - part of the musical, but a wall and the backside of seats in a restaurant were we (and sometimes 'Boris', as rumour has it) were dining before the musical.

"Take your brolly - they said it will rain!"

Well - I have to jump right into the puddle - writing, I mean - otherwise I have those lots and lots of things I want to tell you - but the good intention becomes the victim of perfectionism (as in "I shall tell about the Chelsea Flower Show first!") but I don't feel like it at the moment (though it was absolutely gorgeous!!!!)
And if I start to complain about the cold and the rain (and my envy about people wearing their winter coats and funny knitted caps - they were warm!) it is, as we say in Germany, also "snow from yesterday" - because today it was HOT! (And, to be fair: on Saturday at the Flower Show too, and the day when Anne and I were in Kensington Garden too; most of the people were lying on the green, green grass (a very posh gentleman in his immaculate suit, with a golden wristwatch and very fine shoes was lying for half an hour while speaking into his cellphone - all the time - but the sun even shone on him. Anne and I had the time to look at him because we recovered from the tour through the Kensington Palace, a wonderful meal in the Orangerie, and an extensive walk through the park).
YES, we have seen so much (this was not the programme for the whole day, oh no!) - and my friend is even more energetic than I (and she had only four days for a stay, so one day when we came back from Richmond, visiting her friend who proudly showed us her working place, the complete German school and its surroundings, and seeing polo players and walking miles along a lovely misty river Thames, then visiting the House of Ham, and then (!) Hampton Court, in and out, and then - coming back to Earl's Court, where our hotel was - she asked: "And what are we doing now?"
By and by I will tell you - but not now, as you might get tired.
Anne is back in Germany, and I am in Battersea now, and when I came back this evening the visiting sister of my lovely landlady and her niece said unisono: "So you are Britta - we heard of the many things you do and see - wonderful!"
Well - if you are in London now and see a tall slim woman running up the endless escalators of the tube - yes, the one in the leather jacket and a dark blue skirt and ballerinas (sign of how sensible I have become!), a pink little scarf and a dark-pink umbrella - that's me!

To Whom It May Concern

As I have an appointment at the the RHS Chelsea Flower Show,

I will not be able to read posts or make comments for a while, sorry! 

PS: The flat is under the vigilant watch of husband :-) 

Planning ahead!

As I am going to London next week, today I will only give you a part of the hilarious "The Diary Of A Provincial Lady" by E.M.Delafield -  (another part on Sunday) - to show you my mood and my amusement of watching myself...

July 17th. - Robert sees me off by early train for London, after scrambled and agitating departure, exclusively concerned with frantic endeavours to induce suitcase to shut. This is at last accomplished, but leaves me with conviction that it will be at least equally difficult to induce it to open again. (...)
Arrive at station too early - as usual - and fill in time by asking Robert if he will telegraph if anything happens to the children, as I could be back again in twenty-four hours. He only enquires in return whether I have my passport? Am perfectly aware that passport is in my small purple dressing-case, where I put it a week ago, and have looked at it two or three times every day ever since - last time just before leaving my room forty-five minutes ago. Am nevertheless mysteriously impelled to open hand-bag, take out key, unlock small purple dressing-case, and verify presence of passport all over again.
(Query: Is not behaviour of this kind well known in therapeutic circles as symptomatic of mental derangement? Vague but disquieting association here with singular behaviour of Dr. Johnson in London streets - but too painful to be pursued to a finish).
Arrival of train, and I say good-bye to Robert, and madly enquire if he would rather I gave up going at all? He rightly ignores this altogether.
(Query: Would not extremely distressing situation arise if similar impulsive offer were one day to be accepted? This gives rise to unavoidable speculation in regard to sincerity of such offers, and here again, issue too painful to be frankly faced, and am obliged to shelve train of thought altogether.)
(...)

Nocturnal Thoughts on Nostalgia

This term husband is giving his students a lecture on "Nostalgia" (come to think of it: it is a seminar, and the students are very young). So at home we discuss the phenomenon and I learn that the philosopher Arnold Gehlen said: "Only the acquisition, not the possessing is pleasure-oriented." (I disagree). Gehlen also speaks of boredom, tedium, inebriation, of consumer's happiness and the happiness of adventure, of Freud, Schopenhauer and Marcuse. He says that in the present exists no possibility of happiness. (I protest) He says that's why, to be happy, people develope images of happiness in the future - an utopia. But when this Utopia is realised - asks Gehlen - what shall we do then to escape boredom? "But when the phantasy of happiness radiates backwards, then we finally reach nostalgia."
Aha. I cannot find out if Gehlen thinks that nostalgia is a good thing, or if he is only describing different ways to (in his belief non-existent) happiness.
I have been quite a while on this beautiful planet, but I am not old enough for nostalgia and hope I will never be - so boring, dreaming only of past times glory. Don't get me wrong: I love history - personal and mankind's history - what I do not like is that sour "Formerly everything was better" (I can remember very well that it seldom was).
I think there are two kinds of nostalgia: I know a lot of people advancing in age who see their life as a series of losses - though they have had a very good life. Of cause they are right: everything has an end one day. A wonderful lover leaves, a dear friend goes away, a sister behaves very strangely - that's awful. But they only look back, and dream, and complain, and don't see what is now good, because in their eyes everything is getting downhill.
Then there is nostalgia when people are grateful for what they have been given at their time being, but accept (teeth-gnashingly) that nothing is forever, and are glad about that encounter or experience - this form of nostalgia leaves you energy to concentrate on what's still good around you. I refuse to cry (too long) about the cookie I've eaten. It was delicious - so what?
I think Mr. Gehlen needs not to struggle with utopia - the present is the only way to happiness I can imagine.
Though of course I am a long way from the Famous Wise One who hangs on a cliff - a tiger above him, a panther beneath him in the canyon - he sees that delicious strawberry growing on that rock he is hanging on with one hand - and, being a Taoist, he picks it and enjoy it with all his senses.

Nobody was hurt

"Yes - go and make a plan, 
be a bright chap, 
and then make yet another plan, 
both won't work."

said Bertolt Brecht in the Threepenny Opera.
My plan was taking a little stroll to the Charlottenburger Schloss - our Ascension Day was windy, but mostly sunny. And then I saw it: ten minutes ago that tree had crashed down - wrecking two parked cars, but hurting nobody.
So easily plans can be changed. (Note to self: Always leave the house ten minutes later).
I never forget how silly I thought a woman in a TV-show in Baden-Württemberg, who proudly showed her flat to the reporters: "Look here - I thought of everything. The whole flat is disabled-adapted - for the days when I am old." That woman was not a day older than 29 - (it is a long while ago that I saw it - so I could not anticipate the hilarious scene in "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel", where a couple in England visits such a flat for old people, and the manager proudly shows the emergency button and a handrail on one wall to get there - "Why not put it diagonally through the whole room, if I fall down on the other side?" asks sarcastically the unnerved and still healthy potential buyer.)
No, really: the over-cautiousness is shere fright, the attempt to control everything, so that life might go on forever. But Life is a gloriuos mess. Planning is good - but as Tove Jansson's Snufkin says so wonderful:
"Nothing is stable and sure, nothing is ever really finished or say irrevocable. That is reassuring, isn't it?"

The (Prussian?) gardeners who planted the borders in front of the Schloss might have been afraid (or compulsively orderly) too: 

Scene of the Crime

Thank you for all those interesting tips you gave me on my last post! They will be the "free skating" in London, being in the same category as the special highlight, the Chelsea Flower Show with my German friend Anne, and maybe dropping in at the AGM of the E.F.Benson-Society in Grosvenor Chapel. 

And then there is work to do - as you might guess from the picture above. 

To find my way I pinned down how I will get to Canary Wharf, or Old Bailey (though I have been there before), to Charterhouse Square, and.. and.. and... 

If I get lost sometimes I will ask him: 

PS: If anybody is interested why I included a cookbook (use the magnifying-glass!) - it is written by George Baker - whom you might know as "Inspector Wexford". All the other beautiful regions of England and Scotland (I've already met Ian Rankin) and Wales, Yorkshire, Northumberland etc are still waiting for research. 

As the Hemuls in Tove Janson's Moomin Books remark so wisely: 

"But you can have no more fun as you create on your own." 

I'm sure I will. 

Travel nerves

Husband has developed an early warning system concerning my rising nervousness before travels.
I can hide it, but I cannot erase it. It is in my genes.
Which is especially funny as my late father, whom I miss so much, has not only seen most parts of the world, but also took us as children to many countries in Europe (with a VW and a tent, and the car packed as only a man from the marine can pack - my sister and I sat on the back seat on four sleeping bags, and when we finally reached our destination, in the early years my father built (!) a bench from wood for us to sit on - bringing with us the round camping table he had fitted exactly over the spare wheel of the VW (in front).

As I was the eldest and there were no sons, I was trained to take it all without batting my long eyelashes - so nobody who will err with me through the woods (in summer) will die of famine.
My father's family, the practical ones with the joie de vivre: restless. The names of my mother's family I can effortless trace back to the 16th century - they had always stayed in the 'Altes Land' near Hamburg - which tells everything.
Do not misunderstand me: I love to be in foreign countries - and, as I told you, I try every year a form of 'survival training' that makes some of my women friends shudder, (though my male friends get that cryptical glint in their eyes). For a whole month I stay on my own in an English or Scottish town or city where I know nobody - and till now I always managed very well.
I like to be in new surroundings - but I hate travelling. No, that's not right. I even like travelling: I hate catching the train. Flying is another cup of tea: I utterly LOVE to start and land - and as I go now by air I can be quite serene.  IF there weren't the question of clothes.
Husband smiles when he sees me puzzling over 'the perfect wardrobe', studying the blog 'The Vivienne Files' and drawing combinations of trousers, skirts and shoes (you always need at least 3 pairs - ballerinas, kitten heels (nowadays - a curtsy to age)  and loafers for trousers) I don't want to take too much luggage (though I always do - but I get better every time), I downsize, but then in June in England it can be cold (in Edinburgh two years ago people were wearing their winter coats, no joke), or rainy, or - as I experienced it as a student: there comes a heat wave. I like to be prepared! (Though nowadays there is always the possibility to buy something one has forgotten at Zara or H&M).
As you cannot help me with the weather forecast you can do me another favour, please: if you have special tips what I MUST see/eat/test in London, please tell me! Thank you!

Coffee & Culture

When you are walking through the oldest part of Berlin, Friedrichswerder, which was built at the end of the 17th century, you might need a rest from looking at the (still to be rebuilt) Stadtschloss, the Berlin Mint or the Bauakademie.
Can you imagine that - when you only want a cup of coffee - you have to pass a security control first? 'Put your jacket and the handbag into the basin, please', says the friendly security guard of the Federal Foreign Office in Berlin, then you walk through the scanner.
Yes - EVERYBODY has entry to the Atrium of the former Reichsbank. A fine Light Court with a historical panorama view through 30 x 20 metres glass wall - kept by a wire rope anchorage construction. Beautiful: the glass ribbons of the American artist James Carpenter, which change colour by light. The Old (1934) and the New Building (1999) of the Federal Foreign Office are impressing (you can see it as a whole only on a special visitor's day). The Old Building served as the Reichsbank from 1934 to 1938. In 1959 the Socialist Unity Party of the GDR chose it at their headquarters. The New Building was designed by the architects Thomas Müller and Ivan Reimann - with a stunning transparent facade of glass and travertine stone, three inner courts (sorry, you can only visit the first - and its 'garden' with citrus trees, mimosa and jasmine is very easy to take in).
Inside the Atrium at the left you find the Coffee Shop. While you drink your coffee you can look at the Friedrichwerder Church (built 1824 - 1830 under Karl Friedrich Schinkel) or the Bauakademie (from 1905 - they are restaurating it - you see only a Potemkin facade):

Even if you are not that interested in the building: the coffee is worth it!
("We use real milk with 3,5 % fat for the foam, not that thin UHT milk", the barista proudly tells me).  You can try this at home.




 

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night"

Looking a bit tired at the moment? 
Some of the culprits for what is commonly called 'springtime lethargy' might be our feathered friends: at 4:18 dear robin starts its song, followed at 4:28 by the blackbird, at 4:33 the wren adds its lovely tunes, 4:38 the great tit joins in, then at 4:58 the chiffchaff, and 5:04 the trillions of sparrows we have in Berlin, (and what they chirp I don't call song). 
Our sociocritical poet Bertolt Brecht, "poor B.B.", expressed it in his inimitable unfriendly way: 
"By morning in the grey dawn the firs piss, and their vermins, the birds, start to scream..."  
Old sourpuss - I prefer those noisy concerts to Rachel Carson's Silent Spring!  
Talking of birds: yesterday a biologist might have described the look that husband and I exchanged in the underground with the reaction of male sparrows when they have to listen to the songs of their competitors:  tartish. Our amygdala was tortured by two women (each with a child) who discussed the interesting details of a friend - "and then he said..." "and I said: What???" 
They sat far apart, so they had to shout very loudly - which didn't disturb them a jota, but the rest of the compartment looked pained (except those lucky ones with headphones on).  
Did you know that sparrows or blackbirds that live in cities trill their songs much louder than their country relatives? Most people think that they thus try to outdo the noise of cities - but Danish biologists found out that city architecture matters too: high houses reflect sounds in a different way, so they calculate the echo of buildings. And weather is important: the more it changes between damp and dry the more complex the sound sequence. They say. In Maryland researchers listened over thirty years to the songs of sparrows (oh my God - what a (wild)life!) and found out that only the melody in the beginning of their songs remained the same over time - the middle part changed drastically, the trill at the end became shorter and shorter by time.  
The sparrow-girls throw their little hearts to the boys with the most variations - 
"O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle" (Juliet in Capulet's orchard). 

"Spring lets 'his' blue ribbon..."

I can't believe it - this photo was taken by a friend of mine in the Botanical Garden in Berlin - exactly two weeks ago!! 
You see: there I am still wearing a thick coat (Alpaka - for those who might be on the way to catch their spray cans to protest against fur!) - and the huge model of a magnolia is artistically made from paper. 

Now another artist - Spring himself -  is at work. It's Real Life now, flowery scents lure and awake the senses, cool silken petals from blossoms touch gently the skin, sunbeams tease, off with that coat, no need to hold back - no glass pane between me and Life - 
you're welcome.  

Here my rough translation of Eduard Mörike's famous spring poem, written in 1892 (in German, "spring" is male)  

It Is Spring 
                                                                  
Spring lets his blue ribbon 
Flutter through the air again, 
Sweet, well-remembered scents 
Touch light and hazily the ground. 
Already sweet violets are dreaming, 
Soon they will come.  
Listen - from far away the faint sound of a harp! 
Spring - yes, it is you! 
I hear you coming. 

The Weeding Cultivator - Quote from E.F.Benson's "Queen Lucia"

"A yew hedge, bought entire from a neighboring farm, and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and indignant snails around its roots, separated the small oblong of garden from the road, and cast monstrous shadows of the shapes into which it was cut, across the little lawn inside. Here, as was only right and proper, there was not a flower to be found save such as were mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare; indeed it was called Shakespeare's garden, and the bed that ran below the windows of the dining room was Ophelia's border, for it consisted solely of those flowers which that distraught maiden distributed to her friends when she should have been in a lunatic asylum. Mrs. Lucas often reflected how lucky it was that such institutions were unknown in Elizabeth's day, or that if known, Shakespeare artistically ignored their existence. Pansies, naturally, formed the chief decoration - though there were some very flourishing plants of rue. Mrs Lucas always wore a little bunch of them when in flower, to inspire her thoughts, and found them wonderfully efficacious. Round the sundial, which was set in the middle of one of the squares of grass between which a path of broken paving stone led to the front door, was a circular border, now, in July, sadly vacant, for it harbored only the spring flowers enumerated by Perdita. But the first day every year when Perdita's border put forth its earliest blossom was a delicious anniversary, and the news of it spread like wildfire through Mrs. Lucas' kingdom, and her subjects were very joyful, and came to salute the violet or daffodil, or whatever it was."

Don't, Mr. Disraeli!

Thursday and Friday I made a trip to Hildesheim for cultural reasons. 
Husband exploited the situation to force beg me to look through some of the chests with clothes I hadn't (but might!) worn for years some time. 
Now, that most of the thousands of husband's books (no exaggeration!) are brought to a special very big room in the attic, I was asked to sort my books out, too. To our Berlin flat, husband and I brought only a small part of books from Hildesheim. 
But even that is too much. Soon, when you'll visit in Berlin an Oxfam Bookshop you might be surprised of the rows and rows of well assorted English literature. Some in leather and gold, some just Penguins. Most of them in very tiny print - and almost every one of them read by me. But it has come the time that I know (and admit ) that I will not read them again. Good bye, "Pamela - Or Virtue Rewarded" - thank you Mr. Richardson, I think I have been the only student at the University of Mainz who read all four of those very big tomes - and enjoyed it! - but I think I don't have time enough to repeat that. 
I'll keep the books I read again and again, but: Good bye, Mr. Trollope (except Barchester Tower), and to most of Mr. Thackeray - ("The History of Henry Esmond", which I translated for a German publisher I will keep, though I will not read that again either). 'Beowulf' I will keep, and Mr. Jonson, and I love 'Tristram Shandy', but I give away Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress' - though I keep "Mrs. Fytton's Country Life" by Mavis Cheek, hahaha, even if you cry "Don't, Mr. Disraeli!"  
See: now I follow only my own enigmatic judgement, no need to impress anybody, and I do as I please. 

PS: I did what you should NEVER do when trying to get rid of books - I thumbed through Pamela - my William Heineman edition from 1902 has nice reproductions of 'rare contemporary drawings and with plates for the text' - and then I started to read - and ... I like it... will keep those... (but I am hell-bent not to thumb through Trollope)

The Collection Bayer

When you are in Berlin at the Potsdamer Platz, not everybody knows that you have to walk only a few steps to find the impressing museum, the Martin-Gropius-Bau. The building was erected in 1877 as an Arts and Crafts Museum. Since 1981, when the ruin had been restaurated, you can not only see exhibitions of photography and art, but also admire the building with its high atrium.  

Yesterday (they are open on Monday) I went to see the Collection Bayer (from the chemical and pharmaceutical international concern).  The paintings, normally hanging in the offices of their (important, I guess) employees are now "out of office", because the concern is celebrating its 150 years company anniversary. In 1909 Carl Duisberg asked Max Liebermann to paint a portrait of him, which was the foundation. At first the concern bought paintings to educate their employees - now they own over 2000 works of art.  
It is the first time that 240 of their works of art are presented to the public. And the names of the artists are exquisite: Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Karl Schmidt-Rottluff, Max Pechstein, Emil Nolde,Max Beckmann, Lyonel Feininger, Georges Braques, Pablo Picasso, Joan Mirós, Gerhard Richter, Sam Francis, Andy Warhol - to name a few. 
The exhibition is divided into four parts: German Expressionism, École Paris, After-War-and Informal Art, and American modern art.  I liked a drawing of David Hockney, "Rapunzel" very much, and of course Emil Nolde's paintings. As  nobody is allowed to photograph, you have to put up with the poster, sorry.