Open House is the best weekend in the year for the nosey among us and for the curious, it’s a great opportunity to see places you’d normally pay to get in or only get in by evading men with guns. As I didn’t to see Number 10 or the BT tower via the ballots, I plumped for Banqueting House on Whitehall. It is the last remnant of the Palace of Whitehall and has some interesting history behind it. The ceiling of Banqueting Hall was painted by Ruebens, dating back to 1636 and it’s a spectacular sight. Installing the canvasses wasn’t easy – though Belgium and England both used feet as a measurement, there was a difference in how long a foot was. If only there was an Olde EU, we’d have had equal measurements, and the canvass wouldn’t have needed some chopping up to make it fit.
The Great Hall was James I’s main venue for great parties, right in the middle of town. Ideal for showing off, it is said he was well into that and according to some information boards in the hall, he also loved the company of men. Suddenly, the Royal Family seems pretty cool.
Afterwards, sensing there would be queues for many things, if the queues for the Foreign Office were anything to go by, we went to Shakeshack where we got to experience modern architecture and a building too full of people eating quite average burgers. Then, onto Belgrave Square, where we visited the Romanian and Italian cultural institutes and the Argentinian ambassador’s house. The Romanian cultural institute had little in the way of diversions. The interior was grand enough, but when you’ve seen one grand old house, in a way, you’ve seen them all. There was an exhibition of blouses.
The Italian institute’s interior was more interesting, with classrooms full of old desks that reek of the repression of left-handers. There was a library stocked with books about Italy, which you can pop into any time! The library is in a lovely extension with a mezzanine floor.
The highlight was the ambassador’s house. In fact, in terms of what their offer was, they really made the others seem lazy. First of all, there was a doormat saying “beware of the pug”, with attendant pug looking gorgeous in a basket by a table groaning with beautiful flowers. Moving on, every room was full of art from Argentina, colours leaping out at you. It was as if all the excitement, noise and colour of the country was shipped over in diplomatic bags and installed in a London townhouse. Upstairs a band played Argentine jazz. Perhaps it was just jazz. A child danced to the beats, all beneath elaborate chandeliers. The last room was the office of the ambassador, which was a lovely treat; the room was filled with books on all the subjects you’d ever want to know about and a grand desk. As I left, I spotted a picture of the ambassador with the Queen. No Ferrero Rocher was visible.
