Grumpy Professors

If there's any garden flower that decomposes as beautifully as a zinnia, I'm not sure what it is.

I mean, look at these weird, feathery little projections coming from the center of the blossom in this extreme close-up. They're like gills, or some other protrusions you'd find on an undersea creature. Nature is so strange.

There's not much to say about yesterday. I spent the morning mostly reading, and a roofing team visited in the afternoon at the behest of the landlords, who are thinking about some roof repairs. All I had to do was let them in the side gate so they could check out the property. The repair job itself isn't supposed to happen until next spring, and it will probably be hugely disruptive because I imagine there will be scaffolding and who knows what else, so we have that to look forward to.

I came across two quotes in my reading that I thought were pretty interesting. The first was from a New Yorker profile of author Barbara Kingsolver, who lives on a farm in rural southwestern Virginia:

Because of her Zip Code, Kingsolver has long been a kind of MAGA whisperer, an unofficial Ambassador of Real America. She hopes that that gig ends soon, and dismisses the possibility of Trumpism having a successor, insisting that the President has cultivated a cult of personality, not a lasting political movement. (“He chose a Vice-President with the charisma of a turd,” she adds.)

God, I hope she's right -- that Trumpism is a political blip.

And the second was from the book I'm reading of journalist Thomas Mallon's diaries from the early 1980s. He wrote this in April 1984 while teaching at Vassar, where some teachers were lamenting the lassitude exhibited by their students:

Reached the limits of my patience in English 226...You see, (the students) don't do their work because they have "problems" -- emotions of one kind or another: that's all "problems" means. And the underlying assumption is a hyper-romantic one that the emotions make work impossible, that it is an inevitable and necessary thing for work to give way before them. That work can sometimes be an escape from emotion never occurs to them, because it never occurs to them that emotions sometimes should be escaped. That would be "artificial" and "insincere."

This struck me as funny because it seems so contemporary. Wouldn't many teachers grouse in the exact same way today? We're always hearing about what "snowflakes" young people are. And this was in 1984! The kids he was writing about are my generation -- I was a college freshman that year. I must say I don't think I ever shirked an assignment because of "problems," but maybe I did and just don't remember.

I walked the dog in the evening. We're seeing more of that golden autumnal light, the long shadows of fall.

Orchids and More Kiwis

One of the rescued yellow-green orchids, from that batch I found in someone's yard waste several years ago, is giving us another round of flowers. These have been very productive orchids. One or two of them died but the rest are still plugging away. Overall, though, my orchids seem to be in a bit of a slump -- I've only seen one other that's forming a flower stalk. Maybe it's just not the season for them to do more than rest.

Remember the peculiar bottle cap I found with a kiwi bird on it, the one that turned out to be from Old Mout cider? Well, I bought the full set that I found on eBay (they were practically free -- something like £2). I have no idea what I'll do with them but I thought they were amusing. The only one I don't quite "get" is the one at top left -- is that bird supposed to be dancing? Is the hat a costume reference I should understand?

There was a lot of this going on around here yesterday, and there's probably going to be more today. It's raining outside as I write so I doubt I'll be out much. I'm looking forward to a relaxed day at home.

When I got up yesterday I gave the flat a quick once-over because our management company had asked to inspect it on the 14th. I said no -- because I'd be in Nottingham -- and rescheduled them for the 15th. But they never got back to me with any confirmation and they didn't show up, so I have no idea if or when that's happening. They've started coming by once or twice a year, more than they ever used to, I guess to make sure we're not up to no good. Maybe they've had bad experiences with other tenants.

I've started reading journalist Thomas Mallon's New York diaries from the 1980s and '90s, and they seem like they're going to be pretty interesting. I'm always interested in reading other people's diaries. (I guess that's why I like blogs!) At the beginning, he's just moving to New York City from upstate, and as a former New Yorker myself, I identified so much with his experiences of searching for an apartment -- the viewing from which you literally have to RUN to catch a taxi back to the real estate office before any other competing tenants -- and his sense of wonder at stepping out of his door into the vibrant city streets and thinking, "I live here!" There was a time I never wanted to leave New York, and I felt very settled there, but life had other plans. Of course, London's pretty great too, but I miss New York's verticality and density.

I made another appointment for Bailey to be spayed, on the 19th (next Monday). We'll try it again! It's been more than four months since she was in heat, so I don't see how waiting any longer will be of benefit. Next week is going to be busy -- I also have appointments with a dermatologist and a dentist, and we have tree work scheduled in the garden on the 23rd. Never a dull moment!

More Nottingham, and the Sheriff Thereof

I took this photo on the way back from that mysterious mall -- the one that wasn't open, but actually was -- where I had my coffee yesterday morning. I wonder what "fried chicken (u.k)" means? Are the chickens from Britain, or are they fried in a British style -- and if so, how is that different from frying in any other style?

At least the chicken on the sign looks suitably terrified, as opposed to some chicken shops that make it seem like the bird is downright happy to be beheaded, plucked and fried up for someone's meal.

I got out of Mama's guesthouse fairly early yesterday morning. My train didn't leave until 2 p.m. but I decided to just carry my backpack and camera bag as I explored, so I wouldn't have to return to the room. Mama's was a weird little place. I never saw a human being there in the morning. I simply dropped my keys in a drawer as requested when I "checked out." And despite signs promising "magnificent breakfasts," there was no food to be had at all, aside from green apples on a hall table.

Instead I walked into town and went to Cafe Nero, where I had a pistachio croissant (new to me and not terrible) and some fruit salad, before taking a photo walk around town.

I loved this bus -- such a colorful and unapologetic celebration of human diversity. As it should be.

I eventually made my way over to Nottingham Castle, a historic fortification on a hill overlooking the city. This is the medieval front gate (above), but the "castle" itself is not that old. The original medieval castle was demolished after the English Civil War in the 1600s, and a mansion built on its site. The mansion was then extensively renovated a couple of times, most recently just a few years ago. It's now a history center and art museum.

Of course it focuses partly on the myth of Robin Hood, perhaps the most famous Nottingham resident ever. As I watched a humorous and interesting video presentation about him, I realized that I know almost none of the specific stories. I know the main characters, and I loved the Disney animated movie when I was a kid, in which all the characters are animals (Robin Hood and Maid Marian are foxes, for example). But I could not tell you any specific Robin Hood tale. I know he robbed from the rich to give to the poor, and there's something about him splitting someone else's arrow with a shot of his own, I think.

Incidentally, some of you asked in the comments if there's a real Sheriff of Nottingham. The evil sheriff in the stories is said to be a composite representing government oppression, perhaps based on several real individuals. In the modern era, the sheriff is a ceremonial position meant to encourage tourism and local culture. The current sheriff is a black woman -- surely a step forward since Robin's day.

From the terrace of the castle I could look out over much of the city, getting a bird's-eye view of pigeons resting on rooftops. I also browsed an interesting photography exhibit and historic collections focused on local crafts like pottery and lace, as well as acquisitions from around the world.

I then had a pint at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, said to be "the oldest inn in England." (That record is claimed by many pubs.) Supposedly Richard the Lionheart stopped here with his men for a refreshing tipple before setting off on the Crusades. The oldest parts of the existing building come from the 1600s -- not medieval but still nothing to sneeze at!

I got to the station in time for my train, only to learn that the line was closed because of a fatality on the tracks. (The fatality actually happened in London, in fact right here in West Hampstead, but it disrupted service on the entire line all the way up into the Midlands.) At the direction of rail staff, I took a different train to the town of Grantham, where I then switched for one headed down to London. It all worked out OK in the end.

Nottingham

I made it to Nottingham yesterday without too much drama. My train was slightly late because of temporary speed restrictions on the tracks, which meant I got a small refund (about £7) on my ticket price. Not too shabby!

This morning has been an adventure because the WiFi in my guesthouse room is terrible. I set out to find a coffee shop but the only one nearby and open was a Starbucks inside a vast shopping mall called Victoria Centre. I had to gin up the courage to walk through the mall doors -- with their signs saying it opens at 9 a.m. -- and passing all the silent and gated shops, find the Starbucks, which opened at 7:30! Go figure.

Anyway, back to yesterday. After getting off the train, I wandered around central Nottingham for a couple of hours, taking pictures. There are some lovely ornate Victorian buildings (above) and lots of curious shops and people out and about.

I popped into a sandwich shop called Birds for a lamb-and-mint pasty, which I ate on a bench on a pedestrianized street. I then headed toward my guesthouse, just north of downtown.

I came across this local character, sitting at the base of a statue and keeping up a lively dialogue with himself. I like his crown. He appears to have a huge joint in his hand in addition to his tallboy Heineken, which might explain the dialogue.

I eventually found my guesthouse, called Mama's. I killed time with a cup of coffee in a Korean restaurant across the street until my check-in time of 3 p.m.

All the rooms at Mama's are named for cities. Mine is "Vienna." I had a bit of confusion over the keys -- the room keys look exactly like my house keys, and I somehow got them mixed up and then couldn't figure out why I couldn't lock the room door. I embarrassingly got the clerk involved and she couldn't figure it out either, but I eventually tumbled to what was happening. Good grief!

I took a little nap and then walked to a nearby pub called The Gooseberry Bush for dinner -- cheeseburger and a pint. I read the New Yorker as I ate -- an article about Jared Kushner and his "diplomacy" and profiteering from his connection to Trump. Very appropriate for the talk by Owen Jones I was about to attend, focused on the malfeasance of our current and past leaders who perpetually put profit and money ahead of policies that will benefit their constituents.

The talk was held at an Islamic community center called the Himmah Hub. See that camera in the foreground? That freaking thing was in my line of sight the whole time -- I had to lean slightly right or slightly left to see Jones as he spoke. Leave it to me to choose the worst possible seat in the house, and I was there practically before anyone else!

Jones was very interesting. Among his memorable points, he lightly quipped that Donald Trump would make a great drag queen, because he's already such an extreme character, caked in makeup and making catty, cutting remarks about other people. (The difference, I would say, is that drag queens do it in fun, while Trump does it out of sheer meanness.)

On a more serious note, he had a lot to say about Israel's genocide in Gaza and about the instability in Western societies, brought on by economic and political decisions during the years since the fall of the Soviet Union. (The most obvious being the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.) He sounded some notes of hope, though, noting the popularity of politicians in the USA like Zohran Mamdani and AOC. I'm looking forward to reading his book.

Afterwards, I popped into another pub called the Lincolnshire Poacher and had another pint before heading back to "Vienna" and my bed under the orchids.

And now, more people are moving around in the Victoria Centre and there are even a few other customers in this desolate Starbucks. I guess I should make a plan for the day before I catch my train back to London at 2 p.m. I'm thinking I'll go see the castle.

False Serpent and Real Fox

Like the petunias in yesterday's post, our dahlias are at the end of their season. Some are still bravely plugging away, putting out smaller and less vibrant blossoms, despite their seasonal plague of powdery mildew (which you can see on the leaves above). Some have pretty much given up the ghost entirely and a few looked so terrible I've already cut them down to the ground.

I got a call yesterday from someone purporting to be from our property manager's office. The first thing she did was ask for my address. "If you're calling from the leasing office, you already know my address," I told her. I gave her the house number but she said that wasn't sufficient -- she needed the entire address to verify my identity, and I refused to give it. She said she'd send me an e-mail.

Turns out I shorted our rent payment by £100 this month, because our rent went up and I forgot to change the bank transfer. So I promptly corrected that -- but still, it's a very weird thing to call someone up and demand information from them. It's enough to make anyone immediately suspicious, don't you think?

As long as I was logged into online banking, I got tucked into a project I've been meaning to do for a while -- listing our monthly and annual expenses to better keep track of our subscriptions and that kind of thing. Dave and I went over them last night and identified a couple of things to cut, if not immediately then soon. For example, we each had our own Amazon Prime account, which costs something like £95 a year apiece. There's no reason we couldn't share one, so Dave cancelled his.

In the afternoon I walked Bailey down to the Alexandra and Ainsworth Estate near St. John's Wood. I've featured this place many times on my blog over the years but I hadn't visited in a while, since I no longer pass by walking to and from work. It looks like the drought hit the plantings hard -- there were lots of dry, dead bushes and shrubs. The housing estate near our flat also lost landscaping to the dry weather, even some mature trees. I'm tempted to criticize people for not watering, but then again, we watered our garden and we still lost some bushes.

On the way back I found this curious object lying on the pavement near a bus stop. What the heck is that thing?!

Well, according to Google, it's an Armenian cucumber (also known as a snake melon or painted serpent cucumber). An odd thing to find lying on the street, and weirdly serpentine. I used to have a cat that would leap back from anything that looked even vaguely snake-like, and that cucumber would definitely have given her a turn.

This morning I took out the garden waste, and this was in the street:

It was gnawing on a bone, or something, and afterwards it waited for me to go get my camera and fire off a few pictures. It was a very obliging fox.

Today I'm off on a little adventure. I'm going to Nottingham to hear columnist Owen Jones talk about his new book, "The Fall of the West." According to his publisher, it's meant to "show how the West went from scoring what it believed was its final victory, to being engulfed in an existential crisis of its own making. And how, along the way, it fashioned an ugly new story: that this was the fault of the most vulnerable groups in society, rather than a power-hungry, venal ruling class."

I've long admired Jones and his writing, so I'm looking forward to this event. He also spoke in London, but those appearances were sold out by the time I heard of them. Oh well -- this gives me an excuse to see Nottingham, where I've never been. I'll stay the night and come back to London tomorrow afternoon. Dave will be on Bailey duty!

Kiwis

Our poor petunias are about done, straggling to the end of their lives, looking weedy. I haven't been able to bring myself to throw them out, though, because they're still blooming. I originally planted three different colors in this hanging basket -- pink, red and purple. As you can see, the pink continues to bloom and the red is still hanging on, but the purple seems to have vanished.

For a long time now, I've blogged under the belief that my blog wasn't that easy to find on the Internet. In the past, when I've Googled myself, I'd tend to get lost in a sea of Steve Reeds who are all doing other things. The Croydon MP Steve Reed, in particular, gave my blog cover because his Internet presence was much more prolific.

In the days of AI, though, Google finds me right away:

In fact, I'm the only one it links to! Go figure. So I guess I need to remind myself more than ever that this blog is public and anyone looking for me can find me in a heartbeat. (There's also a voice-over artist named Steve Reed. I'm always surprised how many Steve Reeds there are in the world. We should form a club.)

I'm impressed at how quickly it assessed the contents of my blog as "local walks, urban architecture and snapshots of city life." That's not my wording, so it must have scanned some substantial portion of my more than 6,800 posts to come up with that description.

Another beautiful day yesterday. I took the dog to the cemetery and on the way, we passed our first jack-o-lantern of the year. I like the "bling" around its eyes, not to mention the floral patterns drawn onto its outer skin. I'm not sure that pumpkin's going to make it all the way to Halloween but you never know.

I found a curious bottle cap featuring artwork of a kiwi bird, wearing a pith helmet and carrying binoculars. Turns out it's from Old Mout cider and it's one of a series. Google AI thinks the binoculars are a salt shaker, but then wouldn't the bird be wearing a chef's toque?

I popped into our local bookstore and bought Barbara Kingsolver's newest, which The New York Times terms "sexy" (and if that's coming from the staid Times it truly must be). I also bought singer Lulu's memoir (signed!) and one by James Marriott called "The New Dark Ages," examining the diminishing ability of many people to read long-form text like books and even magazine articles. The Times featured it in a video podcast (ironically) and it sounds interesting.

Hephzibah

Here's another shot of our Brugmansia, still blooming up a storm despite (or maybe because of) ever-chillier outdoor temperatures. It's 47º F out there this morning (8.3º C) which is pretty darn cold for a tropical flower. This is another plant I'll eventually have to bring inside, though where I'll put it I have no idea.

Yesterday, by afternoon, it was warm enough for the bees to come out and gather pollen from the Michaelmas daisies.

I took the dog to the cemetery in the afternoon. On the way, we passed a woman in a black handkerchief skirt, walking with a little girl. The girl was eating an ice cream cone, and the woman -- with one earbud in her ear -- was singing "I Only Have Eyes for You" loudly enough that I heard her from the next block. I wondered if she meant the song for the little girl, who seemed unconcerned.

I was intrigued by this headstone for the Esdaile family, including wife Hephzibah. Now there's a name you don't see much anymore. Some "old lady" names have come back in fashion, but I'm not sure I've ever run into a modern Hephzibah. She married John, a church rector, and lived to be 80, dying in 1886. The stone also mentions two sons, Channing and James.

You can't walk through a cemetery, especially if you pay attention to headstones, without musing a bit on mortality. I know nothing about the Esdailes so I don't mean this as a commentary about them specifically, but for some reason I thought of Pete Seeger's song "From Way Up Here":

From way up here
The earth is very small
They shouldn't fight at all

Down there upon that little sphere
Their time is short

A life is just a day
You'd think they'd find a way
You'd think they'd get along

And fill their sunlit days with song