pumpkinstrokemarrow

Which then leads onto discussion of when a castle is a fort, the word favoured in the Wild West. Also a French word meaning strong, although according to Littre the word is not used as a noun, meaning a castle, in French unless you stretch it out to a forteresse. OED is quite clear that a fort is a castle, has been since the 16th century and which may in North America also be a fortified trading post. North America here including Canada so perhaps the usage there is from the French Canadian.

Midday Monday to the Wigmore Hall to hear a Schostakovich violin sonata (Op. 134) and the Schubert rondo (for violin and piano) (D895), neither of which had I heard before. Performed by a Miss Josefowicz and a Mr Novacek, both of whom look to come from the US. The Shostakovich a strange and powerful (late) piece, well adapted to their very physical presentation. Posture in her case, grimaces in his. Physical turning out to be important, I do not think it would adapt very well to performance on the gramophone - a contraption which to my mind needs rather quieter pieces to work, certainly when sober. Something faintly ridiculous about listening intently to music belting out of a couple of small boxes in one's spare bedroom. Schubert good also, although it would, I think, improve with familiarity. BH very taken with both.

Odd touch from Miss Josefowicz in that she had a very flashy blue and yellow gown on (with Mr Novacek having not quite matching blue and yellow in his shirt), but she had pasted the music for a chunk of the Shostakovich onto a large sheet of cardboard torn from a cardboard box. This to avoid the need to turn the pages. She must have had very good eyesight - or memory or both - as she was standing maybe 4 feet from the music - a distance at which it would be of little use to me.

BH sufficiently stirred up after the concert to pass up the opportunity to patronise the shops in Oxford Street. So a little pick-me-up in the Toucan in Wimpole Street, followed by a stroll through town, down to Waterloo Station. Taking in one small park (St James Square) and one large large park (St James Park). Very nice they were too, although the lake in St James Park was badly infested with blanket weed, covering maybe half its extent. Failed to buy a map of the Thames against an upcoming river trip from the giant Waterstones in what used to be Simpsons.

A place where I remember, many years ago, taking my late father's cashmere coat to be relined and having it spread out on a giant wooden table while the tailor in full fig tut-tutted about the sad condition of the lining. He also made something of the fact that while the coat did indeed carry the Simpson label, it had not actually been sold out of the Piccadilly shop. A near fatal fact, and in the event relining was deemed to be uneconomic, despite the hefty price tag of such a thing new.

PS: Mr G. has interpreted my warblings about castles as a desire to stay in the Castle Rock hotel in Colorado. Interesting minds these search engines.