That faceless mass of hair over there is Joe, down on one of his occasional visits from Dundee. This being the case, an afternoon off work was called and more exciting pursuits engaged in. And Totopoly is a pretty good game, all in all — it keeps up the interest to the end. Number 9 won, by the way — and it was my horse.
Another railway station, the third in nine days, and two of them have both been here, Leeds: the second-busiest station in the country outside London, apparently (after Birmingham New Street, which has also been on here a couple of times). It spits us out at the start of the day and sucks us back in at the end. Not that I use this for my work commute any more, though I did, up until 2005. But I seem to end up here often enough regardless.
I should have returned home after yesterday’s walk, and that I didn’t was evidence of quite how dreadful the buses were in the Lake District yesterday; also that I am lucky I could stay with the in-laws in Morecambe, otherwise I might have been sleeping in Lancaster station overnight. Like everywhere else at the moment, it is a building work-in-progress. I like the blues on this shot.
The Mary Rose went down in the Solent during a battle in 1545 and then sat on the sea floor for 437 years until what remained of it was raised in 1982. I remember watching this event on TV in my teens and then not long after, on my only previous visit to Portsmouth, visiting a mouldering hulk that was hanging in a big shed being sprayed constantly with water to stop it drying out catastrophically. Four decades on and the Mary Rose‘s transition from the mud of the sea floor to hanging off a wall has been completed, and what we’re all rewarded with is one of the most interesting museums I’ve ever visited, for sure. The amount of stuff — not just weapons, but personal effects, foodstuffs, even the skeleton of the ship’s pet ratcatching dog — that came up with the wreck is astonishing. Not an easy thing to photograph with my mediocre equipment, but I gave it a shot.
The Ideal Book? Good question. This afternoon’s visitors to the WIlliam Morris gallery in Walthamstow, London, get the chance to ponder this question. Morris himself gave a lot of care and attention in his later life to producing the ideal book. If you ask me it’s Shogun, but that’s just a personal and rather non-literary opinion.
Hauled myself over to campus, which has been a rare occurrence during this bout of study leave and, in some ways, today reminded me of why. But I guess it was not a complete waste of time. This shot of the preliminaries was perhaps the most interesting thing about the seminar I attended from 3pm, however. Things seem to be floating, and I like the blue.
There’s certainly an eclectic mix of exhibits in the Royal Ontario Museum: your basic dinosaur fossils, a mocked-up bat cave, Chinoiserie, suits of armour, totem poles, the list goes on. It is interesting but would have been even better if half of it hadn’t been closed for renovation: we noted they still charged the full $23 entry fee though. The board on the left, one of those walling off a big chunk of the second floor while telling us about all the marvellous things we might see if only we would come back in a few months’ time, is included in recognition of this issue.
Someone Else’s Art, I guess — but I like it, and the customer’s red hat sets the composition off nicely. I liked the pho, too.
I continue to munch air miles in 2024, as I have returned to Toronto for a couple of weeks’ work. On my first afternoon I was wondering what picture I should get to best represent the city where I’ve already spent 17 days of my life. The CN Tower, or other big, tall buildings? Another of the fine collection of murals? But in the end, let’s go with a pub, as there are some fine drinking holes to be found here — including the Imperial pub downtown, as pure a 1970s relic of interior design as I have ever seen. It still has working aquaria, for heaven’s sake. I saw the girl’s reflection in the mirrored pillar and tried it.
There have been various flights depicted on here down the years and, I am guessing, my total amount of sleep achieved across all of them probably comes to little more than an hour or two. Ten minute dozes might have been snatched here and there on flights once a year, maybe. Johannesburg to Istanbul last night was no different for me. My neighbour did OK but failed to share the knack.
Being 42 