The Hajj exhibition at the British Museum was interesting. This is on until mid-April, so you've plenty of time to go and see it. The first part deals with the scope of the pilgrimage, with maps and photographs of major pilgrim routes, coming across Africa, down from the Indian sub-continent, and from as far afield as Indonesia, and describes the history of the Hajj, with accounts of early pilgrims. There are some colourful touches, such as a ritual tent being carried through Egypt on a camel, and the experience of a seventeenth century European captured by slavers and forcibly converted, who was taken by his master. This all sets the scene for the final part, where a video explains what it is that people do when they actually reach Mecca. Non-Muslims are not permitted to enter Mecca, or Medina, but there's no taboo on our seeing photographs and models, and there are some beautiful textiles. Visitors like me who can't read Arabic script must miss a lot compared to those who can, but the curator has done a good job of explaining it. I found some of the ritual requirements quite strange, like the neat little calculating devices for working out the direction where Mecca lies for purposes of prayer, but not any more extraordinary than this morning's debate on the Today programme about the ordination of women bishops in the C of E.
Unfortunately I couldn't work out any timetable for buying timed tickets for two exhibitions in advance that would avoid the risk of missing my first slot if the trains into London were late, while getting me back to Liverpool Street before the rush hour prohibited period for cheap day returns, without the risk that I'd find myself touring one or the other exhibition against the clock. I wandered about the museum for a while after visiting the Hajj display, so as not to spend too long at the station waiting to be allowed on a train again, and ended up spending forty minutes there anyway. Trying to enjoy London culture from the provinces can turn into an endurance test.
The tickets for Lucien Freud and the two LSO lunchtime concerts have still not arrived, so I rang the National Portrait Gallery and Barbican booking offices to find out what the form was. They both said that if the tickets never turned up it could be sorted out at the door, provided I had my booking reference and the credit card I paid with. In the case of Ticket Master I have to ring them five days before we are due to go. I don't have any expectation that the tickets will ever arrive, so hope to goodness it does all work smoothly and there isn't a hoo-ha on the door, particularly as I'm going with somebody. Memo to self to book online in future, especially if that means printing your own ticket and cutting the vagaries of the postal service out of the loop. The home-printed receipts for the British Museum worked beautifully. You just show your piece of paper at the door like a regular ticket bought at the desk, and in you go. (When we went to a concert at the London Irish Centre in Camden a while back they insisted on taking our pieces of paper, and giving us instead tiny green cloakroom tickets). I only booked these wretched missing tickets over the phone because I arranged the trips while my internet connection was playing up.
The snow was still lying on the ground, and the thermometer was stuck just above freezing all day, so there was no doing anything outside, even if I hadn't still had a cold. In lieu of any more enticing project I spent the day cleaning the kitchen, which badly needed doing. The post, while not bringing my tickets, did bring a nice thank you letter from the ladies group I talked to last week. They have discovered the reason why the heating in the hall was not working, which is that when the new kitchen was fitted somebody installed a radiator directly below the thermostat for the central heating. The vet sent us a condolence card about the cat, which was unexpected but kind.
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