Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Pots and bus stops
The bus stop saga continues. The three touch of pink bus stops have now acquired some lurid yellow - but at least it is only lettering rather than a paint job. On the other hand no one has seen fit to put the pavement behind the relaid kerb stones - which is a mess of what I used to call type 1 sub base - back together again. Perhaps the whole exercise is for the edification and amusement of motorists rather than the convenience of those who might be using the buses. Two other bus stops have been planed and have been sitting there empty for a few days - best avoided on a bicycle - although one of them has today acquired a gang of rather lethargic labour.
But good news from South West trains. The coach containing the talking lady computer must have been sent behing the shed - a terrible place where, as boys of a certain age will remember, Thomas's deliquent or elderly friends got sent to be broken up or cannibalised - because on our ride yesterday the coach we were in could only muster a very feeble announcement once per stop - we think the guard must have been reduced to doing it himself. Bliss.
All this on the way to the Millbank Tate which turns out to have a very good collection from the PRB gang. Sadly, the top right hand portion of the gallery is now given over to dustbin art - stuff which I had thought was confined to the power station downriver. Poor old Duveen must be turning in his well lined grave. Will spend the next few weeks trying to identify the site of the Ewell cornfield which features in a small Holman Hunt. Didn't recognise the shape of the hill at all but I suppose it does all look rather differant with houses on it.
Have been largely entertained by Diana Holman Hunt's saga about her grandfather. It seems that, often being short of cash, he often resorted to the production of what he called pot-boilers. One meaning of which being exactly what one might guess - the wherewithal to boil up the pot containing one's dinner. The other meaning being the hot pebble you chuck into the pot to bring it to the boil when application of heat to the base of the pot - perhaps because it is a lump of rock - is ineffective. Other titbits include the facts that 1) ladies were deterred from remaining in the dining room for port after dinner by the circulation of a silver chamber pot for the greater comfort of those gentlemen who had been rather self indulgent. The pot in question now being in the possession of the author; and 2) that terrible country house snob Evelyn Waugh (granted a funny writer) was actually the sprog of a successful retail chemist. Confirmation of the fact that those most keen on pulling up the ladder are those who have most recently climbed it; and 3) people really did sue for breach of promise and non-cunsummation of marriage in the second half of the 19th century. It seems that the famous Ruskin was a victim of this last having been the victim of a dreadful childhood. There should have been child therapists around to help. So the Stone of Venice (to rime with the sword in the stone) will never sound the same again. (Actually reading them does seem rather challenging - but you never know).
Nearer home, in the back garden in fact, the blue bells are now in flower. The large garden variety rather than the woodland sort which I rather prefer but very nice all the same.
A failed soup yesterday. Let down by the trusty Knorr chicken stock cubes for once. I suspect that the failure to add some onions fried in butter to give body was the culprit. On the other hand have been reminded of the virtues of Sharwood's egg noodles.
But good news from South West trains. The coach containing the talking lady computer must have been sent behing the shed - a terrible place where, as boys of a certain age will remember, Thomas's deliquent or elderly friends got sent to be broken up or cannibalised - because on our ride yesterday the coach we were in could only muster a very feeble announcement once per stop - we think the guard must have been reduced to doing it himself. Bliss.
All this on the way to the Millbank Tate which turns out to have a very good collection from the PRB gang. Sadly, the top right hand portion of the gallery is now given over to dustbin art - stuff which I had thought was confined to the power station downriver. Poor old Duveen must be turning in his well lined grave. Will spend the next few weeks trying to identify the site of the Ewell cornfield which features in a small Holman Hunt. Didn't recognise the shape of the hill at all but I suppose it does all look rather differant with houses on it.
Have been largely entertained by Diana Holman Hunt's saga about her grandfather. It seems that, often being short of cash, he often resorted to the production of what he called pot-boilers. One meaning of which being exactly what one might guess - the wherewithal to boil up the pot containing one's dinner. The other meaning being the hot pebble you chuck into the pot to bring it to the boil when application of heat to the base of the pot - perhaps because it is a lump of rock - is ineffective. Other titbits include the facts that 1) ladies were deterred from remaining in the dining room for port after dinner by the circulation of a silver chamber pot for the greater comfort of those gentlemen who had been rather self indulgent. The pot in question now being in the possession of the author; and 2) that terrible country house snob Evelyn Waugh (granted a funny writer) was actually the sprog of a successful retail chemist. Confirmation of the fact that those most keen on pulling up the ladder are those who have most recently climbed it; and 3) people really did sue for breach of promise and non-cunsummation of marriage in the second half of the 19th century. It seems that the famous Ruskin was a victim of this last having been the victim of a dreadful childhood. There should have been child therapists around to help. So the Stone of Venice (to rime with the sword in the stone) will never sound the same again. (Actually reading them does seem rather challenging - but you never know).
Nearer home, in the back garden in fact, the blue bells are now in flower. The large garden variety rather than the woodland sort which I rather prefer but very nice all the same.
A failed soup yesterday. Let down by the trusty Knorr chicken stock cubes for once. I suspect that the failure to add some onions fried in butter to give body was the culprit. On the other hand have been reminded of the virtues of Sharwood's egg noodles.
# posted by Jim @ 2:51 AM 
