Bleak

Last Friday went to the Rothko exhibition at the Tate Modern, which felt like a pretty fitting postscript to the departing festive season, and indeed accompaniment to the nascent cold grittiness of January: large sombre squares of muted colour, displayed in subdued lighting, arranged according to obscure variations in repetitious technique and layout – the dub techno of modernist art, perhaps. I ended up sitting in front of one particular canvas in black and grey, bordered in unpainted white, and felt like I was looking at a remote moonscape.

Afterwards went for a pizza, then ended up in the Archduke pub, underneath the arches on the South Bank, which reminded me of nothing so much as an 80s 'wine bar', replete with with tiered seating, a mezzanine, lots of bamboo furniture and green anodised aluminium fittings. A faded poster from a Milton Glaser exhibition regarded proceedings from beside the staircase, whilst folky violin-led jazz, a la those Papa/Nicole Renault ads from the mid 90s trickled from hidden speakers. We settled in the conservatory and got outside a few beers, before heading home.

Saturday was Kay's party, where I had my first vodka martini (boozy) and tried a bit of a 'Dirty Martini' which is much the same, except with the addition of olive brine *pulls face*. After that went over to cargo and threw some half-hearted shapes.

Monday now. Just been out to pay a couple of cheques. Bitterly, bitterly cold out there, the first specks of snow borne aloft a bone-cutting wind. Need to look for work...