The Mandolin Lesson by Frances Taylor

good pizzas in London, they are never quite the same – despite all the claims – as those made in Italy. They are usually complicated with too many ingredients and often a tomato sauce, which is uncharacteristically spicy. In Italy, most pizzas have only one ingredient in addition to the bread base, tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. If it is a pepperoni pizza, for example, it will only have pepperoni sausage added to the basic ingredients.
    After a healthy bowl of
macedonia
, fruit salad, and an espresso, I return to the station. The overnight train to Paris doesn’t come too soon for me. It has been a long day. A second long day. The station is cold and the waiting room hosts quite a lot of people with disturbing behaviour. I walk up and down the platform in order to keep warm and to avoid contact with unwelcome strangers. As soon as I am able, I board the train, hand in my passport, arrange my bed and settle down to sleep.
    In Paris, I am not restored by my night’s sleep. I feel pretty ghastly and I would love to have a bath. I am, however, delightfully distracted at the Bastille station by a young lady playing a harp. It is a large harp, the sort found in an orchestra. I am amazed at its presence amongst the throng of early morning commuters. The frame of the harp flashes gold and the celestial sounds of the strings echo all around. The buskers I have encountered have portable instruments and live in fear of being moved on. This one is ensconced in the centre of the platform. I know nothing about the French attitude to busking or of the likelihood that this one will be moved on or even prosecuted. I know only that the Parisian commuters seem respectful of this precious instrument and that perhaps they are even thankful for the inspirational music encouraging them on their way.
    At
Gare du Nord,
I embrace the comforts of a civilised society by hiring a bathroom for a modest fee. The bathroom is just a small room containing a toilet and a hand basin, but it is perfect for my purpose. With a flannel, a bar of soap, hot water and privacy, I am able to carry out my ablutions in an old-fashioned but most satisfactory way. I am so grateful for this opportunity and I am so grateful for hot water.
    Breakfast is good: fresh croissant and milky coffee. Soon, I am on a train heading for the English Channel. The return journey is slow and tedious. The channel crossing is uneventful. Kent is also tiring – all the more so, because, although we are not far from London, the train is particularly sluggish. I hit the London rush hour and take the District Line from Victoria station to Mile End. I change there onto the Central Line, because I just have to walk across the station platform, which is easier with my luggage. I walk the five minutes’ walk from the Central Line station to arrive home in the early evening. I have been for my first mandolin lesson and I feel in a state of collapse.

2

    I have not been home a complete week when Ugo rings me to say that he has arrived in London for a series of concerts. We have a confusing conversation in which he tells me that he is staying very near to where I live. He would like me to meet him for lunch. It turns out that he is staying at the Forum Hotel in Kensington. It is nowhere near where I live, being on the diametrically opposite side of London. I explain that he is in the west of London and I am in the east. Yes, we are connected by tube, but it will take over an hour, maybe the best part of two hours, before I can reach him. He is undeterred, tells me his room number, and says that he looks forward to meeting me shortly.
    I arrive at the hotel an hour and a half later. I speak with the receptionist and she rings through to Ugo’s room, but there is no reply. I tell her that I will wait.
    The reception area is massive. There are all sorts of coming and goings. I notice three clocks giving the various times around the world. I order coffee. I visit the