Saturday revealed in purple prose and whimsey

There is, in Greenwich, a small antiques shop with something horrid in the window. An ancient glass phial is involved, as is Formaldehyde. Something old and yellow is inside out and in the window. I do not believe that it is supposed to be either yellow or inside out. It gives me the fear.

The shop is a dusty old place, even by the standards of antique shops, and had it been open, we would have entered to see what marvels of the orient and times past (or both) were contained within. I am confident that I should have found the hand of the Jade Monkey and been dissuaded from purchasing it by an elderly Peter Cushing, exuding oddness and suppressed malevolence toward the unwary.

Sadly it was closed and we moved on.

Despite the vagaries of the Northern Line, which managed to ensure that it took three trains to get from Whetstone to London Bridge, despite both stations all being on the same line (weekend scheduling is conducted by a baboon with a pointy stick), I managed to meet _januarygirl_ at 1 'o'clock as arranged at Cutty Sark station on the DLR. It was touch and go for a while there, but I made it.

With a prescience denied to many, I recall predicting that once we came to write up the afternoon, there would only be a handful of events we could remember: for instance the bloody awful christmas tree stuck atop the foremast of the Cutty Sark herself (placed there no doubt by a hapless junior curator on punishment detail for some misdemeanour; in time past he would have been keel-hauled in the roaring forties, which doubtless have brought well-deserved tears to his eyes).

We ambled through a couple of markets packed with the strange and exotic oddments so beloved of the Lanes in Brighton, and bought by champagne socialists from deepest Islington; a sort of exotic mediaeval bazaar, but with Axminster rugs instead of Persian, and precious few spices from the South Seas. That said, spices were present in abundance in the particularly powerful mulled fruit punch introduced to me by _januarygirl_. I confess I spent fully the next twenty minutes under the influence of an unexpected vitamin attack (there being no alcohol present). Very warming and tasty. I recall it made me talk a lot.

There were other items of deep interest and dark foreboding for sale, particularly on the stall selling African tribal art, including some masks that would have appealed deeply to pax_draconis. I was sore tempted, but the lack of obvious price tags brought to mind the maxim "if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it", so armed with this sage wisdom, I walked away lighter of heart and heavier of wallet.

We next sought out the aforementioned antique shop, and though filled with foreboding, I shall have to go there again, when it is open for I am convinced that it is the mercantile equivalent of Tutankhamun's tomb, though I am resolved not to make the mistakes, and endure the fates of Mr Carter and Lord Caernarvon... Disappointed by the proprietor's concept of opening hours, we made for the river and walked along the embankment. The Thames at high tide is a strange creature, and though seemingly tranquil, little hands of water slap the various steps and corners, jumping up to smack the ankles of unwary passers. We were wise to the capricious ways of the Lady Isis and avoided the soggy-souled fate of the unobservant.

Somewhere to the south, it was evidently raining, and armed with my phone camera, I managed to grab this picture which does not do justice to the rainbow that arched across the river in the late afternoon sun:




A little further along, following the curve of the river, we saw some way off, the Millennium Dome. It had never occurred to me before that in profile it looks rather like a three-quarter buried Imperial Death Star, imperfectly disguised by the addition of Zeppelin docking masts. Something is afoot in South East London, and one day the world will know to its peril.

Then, the air temperatures cooling, we sauntered down back streets frequented at various times in the past by worthies such as Kit Marlowe and Samuel Pepys, before repairing to a hostelry by the name of the Yacht for a couple of pints and a chat. I think I might have rather hogged the conversation, as is my wont when exposed to too much fresh air and vitamins. I had a splendid time in the process, and I hope that I didn't bore poor Kathy rigid with the combination of wild flights of fancy and rambling obscurity.

If so, I do apologise.

And now to bed. The week ahead is a working week, and karmic compensation must be earned for the weekend past.

Saturday revealed in purple prose and whimsey

There is, in Greenwich, a small antiques shop with something horrid in the window. An ancient glass phial is involved, as is Formaldehyde. Something old and yellow is inside out and in the window. I do not believe that it is supposed to be either yellow or inside out. It gives me the fear.

The shop is a dusty old place, even by the standards of antique shops, and had it been open, we would have entered to see what marvels of the orient and times past (or both) were contained within. I am confident that I should have found the hand of the Jade Monkey and been dissuaded from purchasing it by an elderly Peter Cushing, exuding oddness and suppressed malevolence toward the unwary.

Sadly it was closed and we moved on.

Despite the vagaries of the Northern Line, which managed to ensure that it took three trains to get from Whetstone to London Bridge, despite both stations all being on the same line (weekend scheduling is conducted by a baboon with a pointy stick), I managed to meet _januarygirl_ at 1 'o'clock as arranged at Cutty Sark station on the DLR. It was touch and go for a while there, but I made it.

With a prescience denied to many, I recall predicting that once we came to write up the afternoon, there would only be a handful of events we could remember: for instance the bloody awful christmas tree stuck atop the foremast of the Cutty Sark herself (placed there no doubt by a hapless junior curator on punishment detail for some misdemeanour; in time past he would have been keel-hauled in the roaring forties, which doubtless have brought well-deserved tears to his eyes).

We ambled through a couple of markets packed with the strange and exotic oddments so beloved of the Lanes in Brighton, and bought by champagne socialists from deepest Islington; a sort of exotic mediaeval bazaar, but with Axminster rugs instead of Persian, and precious few spices from the South Seas. That said, spices were present in abundance in the particularly powerful mulled fruit punch introduced to me by _januarygirl_. I confess I spent fully the next twenty minutes under the influence of an unexpected vitamin attack (there being no alcohol present). Very warming and tasty. I recall it made me talk a lot.

There were other items of deep interest and dark foreboding for sale, particularly on the stall selling African tribal art, including some masks that would have appealed deeply to pax_draconis. I was sore tempted, but the lack of obvious price tags brought to mind the maxim "if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it", so armed with this sage wisdom, I walked away lighter of heart and heavier of wallet.

We next sought out the aforementioned antique shop, and though filled with foreboding, I shall have to go there again, when it is open for I am convinced that it is the mercantile equivalent of Tutankhamun's tomb, though I am resolved not to make the mistakes, and endure the fates of Mr Carter and Lord Caernarvon... Disappointed by the proprietor's concept of opening hours, we made for the river and walked along the embankment. The Thames at high tide is a strange creature, and though seemingly tranquil, little hands of water slap the various steps and corners, jumping up to smack the ankles of unwary passers. We were wise to the capricious ways of the Lady Isis and avoided the soggy-souled fate of the unobservant.

Somewhere to the south, it was evidently raining, and armed with my phone camera, I managed to grab this picture which does not do justice to the rainbow that arched across the river in the late afternoon sun:




A little further along, following the curve of the river, we saw some way off, the Millennium Dome. It had never occurred to me before that in profile it looks rather like a three-quarter buried Imperial Death Star, imperfectly disguised by the addition of Zeppelin docking masts. Something is afoot in South East London, and one day the world will know to its peril.

Then, the air temperatures cooling, we sauntered down back streets frequented at various times in the past by worthies such as Kit Marlowe and Samuel Pepys, before repairing to a hostelry by the name of the Yacht for a couple of pints and a chat. I think I might have rather hogged the conversation, as is my wont when exposed to too much fresh air and vitamins. I had a splendid time in the process, and I hope that I didn't bore poor Kathy rigid with the combination of wild flights of fancy and rambling obscurity.

If so, I do apologise.

And now to bed. The week ahead is a working week, and karmic compensation must be earned for the weekend past.