Beach Bum and Sea Nymph had reason to leave the fair county of Cornwall, the coast and the beach and subject ourselves to the fleshpots of the borough of Chelsea. There's a blog - it will remain unmentioned since it has wallowed in its fame long enough - that chronicles the life of a commuter on the London underground. Woe is me, thrice nightly that we descend to these depths to get from A to B. The scuttle and the shushing of the doors, the elevators leading Jubilee to Piccadilly all Escher-like and steaming. Crass, crass an ecstasy of fumbling. But the art was good. I saw Picasso hanging in a window - you have money, much money - come buy all suits with Porsche and city bonuses. And Jackson Pollock waves and swirls and dances. And if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out. Normal service will be resumed when it wears off.