Less clutter bedecks the house of Keats and his bedfellows than Freud's. Perhaps the sparcity of Keats' rooms reflects a more English austerity of temperance, maybe all the clutter was in his mind .. or maybe the museum simply can't afford more stuff, or doesn't want to overburden the viewer. I suspect the conglomeration of objects at Freud's were outward manifestions of repressed urges.
The residence of Keats, his friends, and his lover Fanny Brawne, was more conducive to peace of mind than the Freudian emporium. Fanny's and Keats' houses now adjoin. Here he composed "On the Eve of St Agnes" and wooed his next door girl .. a famous affair that was never fully "realised" because of his tuberculosis.
I reflect over the flowery life of the young romantic poet. I'm a particularly big fan of his epic Endymion - and who can resist "That still unravished bride of quietness" .. the memorable Ode on a Grecian Urn .. also with love incomplete - "Though thou hast not thy bliss, forever wilt thou love and she be fair."
I meet my second Mike of the journey at a Hampstead corner pub. The winter is positively mild according to him. Snow was on the streets last year. He says I've got nothing to fear being a five a day smoker - he's a fifty fag a day lad! Nevertheless, my daily limit is increased to six - I've a burning need for oral gratification after Freud's house and Keats' consumption.
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