My London Club

Lords, ladies and executives of News International have a London club. The Athenaeum comes to mind. Lads, lasses and others in London with no salary also have a club - their gang's local bus shelter. I, too, have a London club. Its name is The British Library. Four hundred miles south of my Lindisfarne home I walk a short distance from King's Cross station (whence Harry Potter whisked to Hogworts from platform 9.3/4) along Euston Road to the library. Prince Charles, whom I rarely criticise, does not like this library, but it is just my cup of tea. It has several outdoor spaces with seats, outdoor and indoor cafes where I can converse as a soul friend, free wi fi where I can Twitter. If I am truly virtuous I can read, or even study. Sleep is more difficult. For that I slip away to Friends House down the road. Quakers don't mind a few dozers - they may be entering the inner silence.

Why do I choose this club? Not, you must understand, because it is free. I choose it because it houses The Lindisfarne Gospels which rightfully belong to us who live on Lindisfarne. Really, the British Library should pay us for the privilege of housing them. I admit that I personally could not afford the yearly sum of several million pounds it would cost to keep them secure on their rightful site. That is why I acquiesce in this artful compromise: I make myself at home in the surrogate home of my Gospels.