Eros and the Mysteries of Amazon

Yesterday I had an errand to run in Westminster, so I went down to Piccadilly Circus around 10 a.m. and found the summer sun flaring up behind Eros, and casting a dark shadow.

My errand was to get my blood drawn and have a few other minor medical things done at Boots pharmacy. This is for a large-scale study called Our Future Health, which is being run by a charity in conjunction with the NHS. It's meant to track public health over a period of years and determine whether diseases or health issues can be detected earlier, among other things. They invited me to participate, so I signed up, and the blood draw was part of the deal. Apparently they'll analyze my blood for genetic markers that indicate susceptibility to certain illnesses and that kind of thing (as well as cholesterol levels and other basic stuff).

Anyway, they're looking for several million participants for this study, apparently -- so if you're in the UK and you're interested, check it out!

After the blood draw, I took a long walk through Soho and up through Fitzrovia and Camden. I hadn't been walking in days and even though it was quite warm I wanted some exercise. I stopped in at the Camden Market to check out the guy who sells old photo slides, and of course he had tons of them in a box that weren't there the last time I looked. But having just combed through several hundred old photos in Hebden Bridge, I just didn't have the appetite for it. I'll go back at some point. Slides are fun but they're quite an expense to "rescue" because I have to pay to have them scanned, or buy a slide scanner.

Speaking of buying things, Amazon has been jerking me around. I've been waiting more than a week for a book I bought (the monograph of James Bidgood's work, which I mentioned here) and yesterday I got a message from the third-party seller saying they had accidentally shipped the book to the wrong address and were unable to get it back and unable to replace it. So they're issuing a refund. Now, this seems fishy to me, and when I looked at their customer feedback I found that they had done this same thing to many other people. I also learned that despite the fact that they're a bookstore with UK in the name, they're based in Turkey. The conclusion seems to be that they offer books for sale they don't even have, gambling that they'll be able to get one at a cheaper price and promptly pass it along at a premium. In my case, they lost their bet.

Street art in Camden and also my mood re. Amazon

I also ordered some small iron plant stands to elevate plants off the ground (dahlias!). They were supposed to arrive yesterday via Prime. At 8 p.m. I got a text saying they'd tried to make the delivery but were unsuccessful. Now, Dave and I were both home, and no one came to the door. I think the driver basically threw in the towel at 8 p.m. and went home. So anyway, they're supposed to try again -- hopefully today.

By the way, have you noticed that items on Amazon all have weird, IKEA-sounding brand or product names? My plant stands are called "Tosnail" (whether that's two-snail or toss-nail, I'm not sure), and the elevated dog bowls I bought for Olga are called "Foreyy." What's up with that?!

(Oh, I answered my own question -- click here to find out what it's all about. Thank you, Google and The New York Times.)

A Porch Railing, a Summer Street

This is what greeted me yesterday morning when Olga and I went for her walk. I gotta hand it to Mr. Russia, he did a good job with that porch railing. It definitely looks better than it did. I love that he even obtained professional-looking "wet paint" signs. That guy is prepared! (And the paint is dry now.)

I am super-proud of my own DIY skills. For several months now we've had a problem with water accumulating in the bottom of our refrigerator. I knew this was the result of a blocked drain line, but the little tool that came with the fridge was ineffective in clearing it. The property inspector who came from our management company a couple of months ago included it in his report as something that needed fixing. But the other day I went to the hardware store and bought a long, skinny, tiny brush and ran that through the drain, and voila! The fridge is draining. I was able to e-mail the property manager yesterday, copying the landlords, and say, in effect, "See? I am capable of fixing something myself."

Oh, look! It's another fly! (In this case, a hornet mimic hoverfly, resting on one of my slug-damaged dahlias.) That must mean it's time for...

...more stinky college poetry!

Assumption on a Summer Street

Heavy sunshine fell through wet air, as
I stood by the steaming street
waiting to cross, sweating.
A metallic river of traffic inched by me, until
a red-haired woman in a battered seafood truck
stopped and waved. I ran
Thinking she had stopped for me.
I had half crossed the burnt road when,

Behind me, she hooted once

seemingly irritated.
I did not know why
Until I reached the opposite bank, panting,

and belatedly realized

she didn't mean to wave me on.
She wanted me to give her directions.
I felt foolish,

and hiding behind my sunglasses,

I walked on, breathing the humidity.

This is from 1986, and I do not remember that incident at all (why would I?), nor why I chose to write about it. What's up with the capitalization? It's a mystery. But it's kind of cool that this tiny occurrence, lost to the fog of time, can now be resurrected through my old writing, mailed to me by my friend. (See yesterday's post.)

I will say that "heavy sunshine falling through wet air" pretty much sums up summer in Florida. I got that much right.

Here in our corner of England, it's supposed to hit 87º F (or 31º C) today, which the weather people call "hot." Ha! I laugh at your hotness! Except that we have no air conditioning -- there is that.

Flies and Poetry

Hmmm. What's attracting flies to my blog? Could it be the scent of stinky writing?

Why yes! I think that's exactly what it is. Because today's blog post is going to be particularly stinky.

One of my best friends in high school and college was recently cleaning out some boxes and came across a stack of my old poetry, which I had carefully compiled into a manuscript, complete with a title page and table of contents, and given to her. (She also fancied herself a poet, and had done the same for me, so I was returning the gesture.) She mailed it to me, and I received it yesterday.

Now, we're talking poetry that I wrote as a teenager. I've blogged before about my collegiate poetry writing career, and over the years I had discarded many of those poems. I threw some out when I lived in Florida, probably around the time I moved to New York. I threw more out soon after we moved to London.

But I must say, I got a kick out of receiving those poems in the mail and reading them again. The universe sent them back to me like a boomerang! Here's one that's not too bad, written in 1984 when I was 17. I wrote several poems around that time for a high-school writing competition that I ultimately won. This is not one of the poems I submitted, but I probably wrote it with that contest in mind.

Azalea

Curved and rippled,

triumphant,

yet almost too temporary

to be enjoyed.

Pink, magenta, mauve,

speckles, spots,

the Floral Leopard.
Sloping throat,

deep pink shadows,

a purple horn, curling upward,

trumpeting colors

to the sun.

Many of them, though, are less observational and more laden with the kind of emotional drama that one would expect from a teenager. I have a couple called "Because of YKW," and I know YKW stands for you-know-who, which is what my mother used to call my father. My poems were not about my father, though -- they were about some erstwhile love interest. I was simply borrowing my mother's term to keep that person anonymous (never mind any Freudian implications). It took me a while to even remember who YKW was.

Similarly, there was this one, from March 1986:

To D: The Last Light of a Bad Day

The streetlights, the orange kind,

Glow against a faint remainder of blue sky.

A peaceful end to a glaring day.

(Do you even like me?)

This cement is cooling, the heat being lifted by the night

In steaming columns...

(Half of me says you do, the other half, well...
Is it unreasonable to push things so fast?)

Mosquitoes --
Always mosquitoes on a cool night!

(Do I bother you or something?)

Relief is a great feeling.

The pressure is off, once again, until tomorrow.

(I'll see you again tomorrow.

Are you looking forward to it?
I'm living for it, it seems.)

I feel cool, relaxed, ready to meet

(any challenge.)

I wrote that when I was 19, and D was a guy in my college Spanish class who I was crushing on at the time. I'd forgotten about him completely and like YKW, I had to think to remember who D was. It's funny that I saw myself as possibly "pushing things too fast" because I don't think I pushed things at all. We did hang out together before and after class, but I never even asked him out!

Anyway, it's not very poetic, but it is very teenagery. As I told my friend in a thank-you message yesterday, "It's great to revisit our younger selves from a position of relative 'wisdom!'" Now that all these poems have returned to me, I'll keep them. They don't embarrass me as much as they used to, because I'm so far removed from them now that I can see them as a product of youth.

And look! It's another fly!

Tablecloth Monolith

I washed our tablecloths yesterday, and then set them out in the back garden to dry on our laundry rack. I was lying on a blanket on the grass with Olga, reading, when I looked up and saw the tablecloths as a sort of "2001" monolith looming over me. A weird perspective!

I finished "Jamaica Inn" by Daphne du Maurier, which I liked. I had a little trouble getting into it but after about 100 pages it took off. I can see why it was popular when it was published back in the '30s. Very gothic, with lots of dark corridors and windblown rain.

I also mowed the lawn, which now looks like this. The teasel jungle is still tall and green, and all those teasels are in various stages of blooming. I like the overall effect, which isolates the back part of the garden, but once they're finished blooming I may cut quite a few of them down, along with the burdock, so they don't all re-seed.

Also, our roses are looking terrible. Some of them barely have any leaves. We didn't prune about half of them this year, because we wanted to see what would happen, and I think that's part of the problem -- we have leggy growth. But we also have black spot, which is very common and we haven't done anything to fight it. We have an organic black spot remedy that we haven't used this year, and I think next year we need to be better about pruning, mulching and using that remedy. To be fair, pretty much every rose bush I've ever seen has black spot, but I think ours is especially severe and I'd feel terrible if we, as custodians of these old rose bushes, allowed them to perish on our watch.

I pulled together a bunch of documents in order to file my British taxes. It's so fun being an expat and having to do taxes TWICE. Fortunately I have an accountant helping with the British ones, because I know nothing about British tax law and this is a new requirement prompted by my inheritance from my mother. Maybe once I see how it's done I can file myself in future years. Or maybe from here on out I'll have the accountants do both my American and British taxes, which is their specialty. It would be nice to hand it all off to an expert.

Also, I've been meaning to say thanks for all your comments on Friday's post, wishing me and Dave a happy anniversary. It was great to hear good wishes from so many of you. You made our day!

Daily Minutiae and a Behemoth Bush

This is our flat's front garden. It's a little crowded, I know! We haven't had it pruned in a couple of years and that Hebe, in particular -- with the purple flowers -- is threatening to swallow the house. The Russians have complained about it a couple of times but I want to wait until the Hebe is done flowering before doing any trimming.

Where the back garden at our flat is our responsibility, the front garden is our landlords'. So ideally they should have someone come and trim it. I've done light trimming myself and I might just do it again in the fall, or I might ask the management company to send someone. I'm not sure yet.

You can see Mr. Russia's stripped and sanded porch railing, which he's going to paint. It's always something with that guy.

We've been dealing with another minor maintenance issue -- a leaky toilet. I think it's been leaky for a while, to be honest, but we didn't really notice it until we got the new floors in the bathroom last year. Water is slowly dripping from the bolts that connect the tank and the bowl. It's not a lot of water, but it's enough that a small puddle forms. The maintenance company has sent someone twice to solve the problem and by golly, it's still happening. They probably should have just replaced the toilet when they renovated the bathroom.

Remember how I loaned some of our garden waste bags to Mrs. Kravitz, and predicted I'd have to chase them down to reclaim them? Well, they've been sitting in a huge pile of garden waste at the front of her house for a couple of weeks, and for some reason, the waste collectors won't touch it. I suspect she hasn't paid her annual garden waste fee. So yesterday morning I grabbed two of my full bags from her stack and put them in front of our house, and that did the trick -- the waste guys emptied them. Now I have them back. Isn't that exciting?! (🙄 Eye-roll emoji again.)

Yesterday afternoon, after Olga left with her dog-walker, I went for long walk on my own to Hampstead Heath. It always feels a little weird going there without Olga, but she can't walk that far anymore -- and doesn't really want to. It was a beautiful day and I made a short video of some of the wildflowers and happily buzzing bees:

In order, you'll see purple knapweed, yellow ragwort, some purple loosestrife (I think?), pink hairy willowherb, a white umbellifer of some kind, some scenery from Parliament Hill, and more ragwort at the end.

But don't feel too bad for Olga, because she was on a different part of the Heath with her dog-walker (who has a van and thus can drive her to and fro). He posted this to the dog-walking company's Facebook page:

She was having a great old time! (And she got a bath last night.)

The Dahlia Report, and a Flashback

We are pretty much at the high point of the dahlias. After all the whining and complaining ("moaning," as the British would say) that I did earlier this spring about slugs eating them, I thought I'd report back to show you how well they turned out. Overall, I'm pretty happy.

(I can see my brother rolling his eyes: "Oh no! He's blogging about plants again.")

This is probably the best-looking of the bunch, with darker-colored flowers. It's one of the Bishop's Children variety, and I like them because the flowers are open and accessible to bees and other pollinators. We see hoverflies on them all the time.

That gigantic green plant on the left is a Nicotiana, which is sending up a flower stalk that should bloom in a few weeks.

Here are three more Bishop's Children, with a geranium in the middle. All of these dahlias are elevated off the ground, which has kept slugs and snails to a minimum. That middle dahlia doesn't have a single flower bud, and I have no idea why.

Here are three more, two Bishop's Children and a Gallery Valentin (top, on the milk crate). The two on the bottom have had more trouble with slugs, which is why the foliage looks thinner. I was bringing them inside every night for a while, just to get them out of the gate with enough growth to survive. I left them out last night and pulled two fat slugs off them this morning, so I suppose I may keep bringing them indoors, even though it's a pain.

They'd be fine if I could keep them off the ground, but I'm out of elevated surfaces!

The one on the left has a couple of flower buds, but I don't see any on the right-hand plant.

Finally, this is our orange dahlia -- I can't remember the name of the variety, if I ever knew it -- which was so demolished by slugs or snails that it's barely grown at all. I'm not sure we're going to get a flower from it this year, but hopefully it's at least big enough to keep the roots alive for a fresh start next spring.

So that's the dahlia report. Aren't you glad you know all this? I'm writing it as much for myself, to keep track of all the plants' performance, as for you, but hopefully it hasn't been agony to read.

The funny thing is, it's almost accidental that we have all these dahlias. I grew the Bishop's Children ones from seed, and I've just kept them going year after year by keeping them in pots and tucking them away in the shed every winter. (Dahlias are not frost-hardy.)

In other news, Dave and I celebrated our 14th anniversary last night at The Ledbury in Notting Hill. We were civil union-ed when we lived in New Jersey -- before gay marriage -- on July 21, 2010. (And then married on Dec. 22, 2015, after marriage became legal.) We always consider the July anniversary our real one, because we would have been married then had it been an option.

Here we are on that day, with our two ancient boxers, Ruby and Ernie. (Who belonged to Dave before he met me.)

And here we are in the oh-so-glamorous office of the mayor of East Brunswick, who performed the ceremony as we all sat at his conference table. I remember we laughed afterwards about how weird it was that we didn't even stand up.

Sometimes I am shocked by how time passes. We've lived in London 13 years now, and ten in the same flat. I think both of us feel like we've got a good thing going.

Anyway, at the Ledbury, I had the tasting menu with wine pairings, and I wore the jacket. Dave also had the tasing menu but owing to his Crohn's he cut back on the wine. Which I probably should have done as well, to be honest. I am a bit foggy this morning.

Dahlias look beautiful even from behind, don't they?

Grandma Rides a Motorbike

Here are some of the photos I picked up on Monday and Tuesday at the antique store in Hebden Bridge.

First, a portrait that I think was taken to commemorate a first communion or confirmation in the Catholic church. I rarely buy posed portraits but as a non-Catholic I was intrigued by the big elaborate armband, the traditional white gloves and rosary and the various pins on the boy's jacket. The back is stamped "P. Costesèque Photo, Lézignan (Aude)." Lézignan is in southern France near Narbonne.

In fact, many of the photos I purchased this time around had French writing on the back or seemed associated with France, despite the fact that I was in deepest Yorkshire. They're probably all from the same family.

This looks like a girls' gymnastics or physical education class, with those long clubs or batons. What do you think?

Ah yes. The bridesmaids. Gotta love those tiara-like hair bands -- very '60s.

I'm always drawn to photos that are very worn or seem to have been carried around by their owner. This one is quite tattered and folded as if kept in someone's wallet. On the back it's stamped "Clarograph Photos, 105A Union Road, Nottingham."

Look at Grandma, sitting side-saddle! Part of the reason I persisted in going through all the pictures at the shop was in an attempt to find the other half of this image, which is dated 1932.

Written on the back: "Finest lady in north Wales."

You gotta love the way that guy on the right jumped into the picture at the last minute. I assume he was in charge of the self-timer on the camera. Aunt Josephine behind him doesn't seem to approve.

Written on the back: "Lundi 29 Mai 1930 Pentecôte"

On the back: "Maison de Paul et Christiane, Charrot, 1953." Looks like a fixer-upper.

On the back, this is stamped "Kodak Colour Enlargement, made by Kodak Limited London, October 1957." Google Image Search shows that distinctive building is located in San Sebastian, Spain. A favorite vacation shot, enlarged for framing, I guess? That younger girl looks rather glum.

And finally, the exotic foliage makes this shot intriguing. On the back: "Bamboo Grove (Silver Springs), Kampala, Aug. 1956." The Silver Springs Hotel still exists in Kampala, Uganda. I'm not sure what the Bamboo Grove is or was, particularly since it seemed to feature primarily banana trees, but it made for a good photo. Kampala must have been quite an exotic destination for Europeans in the mid-1950s.

These are just ten of the 50 or so pictures I bought and scanned. I'll let you know when I've put them all on Flickr so you can check out the rest, if you're interested.

A Canal Walk, and Back Home

There was no drag at breakfast yesterday, sadly. In fact there was no one at all, at least during the time I ate -- it was just me and the continental buffet, and an attendant who stayed in the kitchen. Oh well.

After breakfast I walked along the Rochdale Canal (above) to Mytholmroyd. It was a quiet walk and I was virtually the only person on the towpath. I saw lots of Himalayan balsam, an invasive weed that I don't see much in London -- it has really laid claim to the landscape of the Calder Valley.

This boat amused me. It's called the "Avon Lady." (And she needs some work.)

It's only about a mile and a half from Hebden Bridge to Mytholmroyd, where I didn't really see anything worth writing home about. But I enjoyed the walk and the exercise and afterwards I happily sat out in the town square at Hebden Bridge, had a coffee and texted with Dave.

At 10:30 the antique store opened for business, so I went and continued browsing the old photos. I spent another hour and a half or so in there, and wound up buying 40 pictures, which is probably way too many but oh well. I'll make a post out of the best ones and as usual all of them will go on Flickr.

Then I caught the train back to London.

I saw this graffiti message out the train window while rolling into Bradford.

It's a 3.5-hour journey from Hebden Bridge to London. I changed trains in Leeds, where I had time to grab a quick soup and sandwich -- posh cheddar and pickle, with tomato soup -- from Pret.

And now I'm back home, my little Yorkshire adventure at an end. If I'd stayed an extra day I could have gone up Stoodley Pike, which is only a few miles from Hebden Bridge, but that wasn't really on my radar so it will have to wait until next time.

Dave was here, fresh from his trip to see Adam and Tim in Ireland. He says it was good to see them but the trip was so short it almost wasn't worth the time waiting in airports.

Olga, seeking shade under the hydrangeas (and sometimes on top of them), is happy to have us both home!

The Pilgrimage Revealed

So here's where I am. I don't really expect any readers -- except possibly fellow blogger Mr. Pudding, who's been here -- to recognize this location, but let's start slowly.

Here's another view.

OK, fine, let's just give it away:

Yes, I am on a literary pilgrimage to the Calder Valley of West Yorkshire, visiting the grave of one of my favorite poets, Sylvia Plath. That's my book leaning against her headstone. Don't worry, I didn't leave it there! I brought it to read on the train and get myself into the right headspace.

I've written before about Plath and walks I've taken around London to visit her homes and locations mentioned in her poetry. I became a fan of her writing as a teenager, when I read "The Bell Jar" and some of her poems. She is a poet who appeals to young people -- accessible but sophisticated, full of drama, writing about being young herself. (She was only 30 when she died, famously, by suicide in London.)

It's only because of her former husband, poet Ted Hughes -- who had separated from Plath after having at least one affair shortly before her death -- that she's buried here in Yorkshire at all. I'm staying in Hebden Bridge, and he was born in Mytholmroyd, a town just down the road. His parents lived in the nearby village of Heptonstall when Plath died, and that's where her grave is located, even though she lived in London and Devon and was American by birth. She seems a bit stranded here, between local families the Carrs and the Drapers. (When Hughes died, his ashes were scattered in Devon.)

As you can see, some people have taken exception to including the name Hughes on her gravestone -- so much so that it's been repeatedly chipped off.

Visitors have left tokens of appreciation: a painted rock, a dragonfly. Lots of pens. Someone even left a Scottish £10 note, which I thought was a little peculiar. The bracelet's letters form part of a line from Plath's poem "The Bee Meeting": "I am the magician's girl who does not flinch."

When I found Plath's grave in the Heptonstall churchyard, there were already two young-ish women standing over it. I sat down on a nearby bench with my book and waited for them to leave, but as I did so, another two women and a man showed up. (The man could not have been less interested and wandered off to look at war graves.) I waited and read a few poems: "Blackberrying, " "Finisterre."

Finally, after I was alone on the windy hillside, I sat next to her grave and read "Ariel," one of her most famous poems, aloud. It was so interesting to think the woman who wrote those lines -- or at least her earthly, biological self -- was right next to me.

Despite my affinity for visiting cemeteries, I've always wrestled with the point of graves. My parents don't have physical graves, nor do I intend to have one. And yet I do feel a connection when I visit them. Which I guess is the point.

Getting to and from Heptonstall from Hebden Bridge was interesting. I had to hike up this steep and rather treacherous cobbled path, known as "The Buttress" -- its stones damp and somewhat slick, not to mention uneven. Going down again was an even bigger challenge, but fortunately, there's a handrail, which I kept close.

I also visited a local antique store where I picked up some interesting old postcards and pictures (more blog fodder!) and I will probably go back this morning because I didn't get a chance to comb through everything. I have an "anytime" train ticket today, so I'll make my way back to London sometime around lunch, I think. Dave got home from Ireland yesterday, and Olga had her dog-walker, so she was fine without me.

One other thing I've discovered, completely unexpectedly -- Hebden Bridge is very gay. Lots of rainbows and pride flags. In fact, there are only two other people staying in my guest house, and from those names I'm almost certain they're drag queens. Maybe they'll be at breakfast. In drag, I hope.

A Cemetery Walk, and 'Pink Narcissus'

Dave departed for Ireland yesterday morning, leaving Olga and me to wile away the day on our own. We spent the morning in the garden and then, after lunch, I tried walking her to the cemetery, where we hadn't been in a month or so. Our walks there are less and less frequent as Olga often doesn't want to go that far.

But yesterday, she was up for it! She posed for a picture at Fortune Green (above), with her tennis ball. She doesn't chase it much these days, but she will catch it in her mouth and carry it around.

And of course she still rolls vigorously in the long grass!

Even though she's about 100 in dog years she seems to get impatient with my dawdling.

We came across a big patch of native hogweed (the same kind we have in our garden). This is a little like "Where's Waldo?" but Olga is in there somewhere. I've noticed that some areas of the cemetery seem to have been treated with herbicides to kill weeds. Don't get me started on the folly of that. I've always thought one of the most beautiful aspects of the cemetery is its semi-wild state. I hope this hogweed is permitted to remain.

We only walked the back portion of the cemetery, and then made our way home very slowly. But bravo to Olga for her adventurous spirit.

I have not heard the turaco at all this year. I think it has flown this earthly coop, or maybe merely moved on to greener treetops. Granted, I haven't been in the cemetery as much. Olga and I used to go weekly, if not twice in a weekend, but now it's more like once a month.

One of the photos I saw at the Elton John photo exhibit at the V&A on Friday was this film still from a movie called "Pink Narcissus" by James Bidgood. I don't remember ever hearing of this movie before, though I must have seen it mentioned here or there. A photographer and costume designer, Bidgood filmed it over several years in the '60s, mostly in his studio apartment, and it was released in 1971 at the dawn of the gay rights era. After a little research I found I could rent it through the BFI subscription service on Amazon. So I took the plunge and watched it last night. It is very of its time, a sort of psychedelic fever dream of homoerotic imagery -- but fascinating from a queer history perspective. I also ordered a monograph about Bidgood and his work, because apparently I don't already have enough in my reading stack. (Sarcasm!)

How do we feel about Biden? I'm sorry for Joe that he had to step aside -- it must have been a very hard thing to do -- but I am certain it's the best thing for the party and the country. I think people, young people in particular, can get more excited about Kamala and I am so happy to have some fresh blood in the race. I'm optimistic, for the first time in months. On to victory!

And now I have to go catch a train. Why, I will tell you tomorrow.

Patio Cleanup with Traumatized Aloe

A few months ago we got some seeds with one of our gardening magazines at work. I didn't want to throw them out, so I brought them home and planted them, and here's the result. It's Linaria maroccana, or Moroccan toadflax. Mostly through my own neglect we only have a few surviving plants, but that's enough for me. At least the seeds didn't go to waste.

I've had a busy couple of days around the house and garden.

On Thursday I repotted our gigantic aloe, because it had become so top-heavy that it was prone to tipping over. Here it is in its new pot, which I weighted with some rocks in the bottom:

Unfortunately it was really cumbersome to handle and I bent or broke some of the leaves and possibly broke at least one of the stalks. I can't see a break, but that stalk on the left is hanging funny. I tried to be careful but that plant weighs a ton. Time will tell how well it recovers.

And yesterday I undertook my annual patio cleanup.

Here's the before shot (above), showing the patio in all its weedy splendor.

And here's the after, following a couple of hours on my knees pulling weeds and scraping moss and sweeping. As you can see, there's still some moss left behind, and I kept the coltsfoot and the ladies' mantle that grows between some of the stones. And I did not move some of the big pots because there are critters living under them. I am not a perfectionist. If I were Mr. Russia the whole thing would be sandblasted and sprayed with weedkiller and all the cracks re-grouted.

Speaking of which, he was out front yesterday sanding and painting the front porch railing. Is it terrible that I don't offer to assist with some of these projects? After all, it's our railing too. But it really is a landlord thing, and if it were only us living here it wouldn't occur to me to touch it.

Dave is leaving for Dublin today for an overnight meetup with a friend from college. Adam is visiting from New Jersey in preparation for bringing his music students to Ireland next year. I was invited too but I'm staying here with Olga, until I go on my own overnight adventure tomorrow (stay tuned!), by which time Dave will be coming home. I went to Ireland in March and don't feel any need to go back right away, especially since we'd have had to arrange dog care.

Yesterday in my e-mail I got an advertisement for "Wooden Granny Annexes." I didn't open it, but got a dark-humor chuckle from the thought of annexing Granny to a wooden garden shed.

Photos from Elton and David, and a Pumpkin

I went to the Victoria & Albert Museum in Kensington yesterday for a dose of culture. They've mounted a show of photography collected by Elton John and his husband David Furnish, with photos from fashion to portraits to journalism taken by many well-known photographers. It's a HUGE show, and it took me a couple of hours to get through, but it was fascinating and I bought the catalog afterwards.

Before I even got in, though, I had some challenges. I hadn't pre-booked a ticket because the V&A specifically says on its web site that pre-booking isn't necessary. Maybe they just meant for the museum in general, but anyway, when I got there I was unable to buy a ticket with my debit card because their "systems were down." They suggested I do it online, but that didn't work either. I made my way to an ATM a few blocks away and withdrew cash, which I used to pay for my ticket -- and I had to round up with a small donation because the museum couldn't give me change. The whole thing was a kerfuffle, and of course I realized later that it was part of yesterday's worldwide collapse of computer systems related to that CrowdStrike update.

I had to laugh because wasn't I just saying how much I love our cashless society? Like any technology, it's all great as long as it works!

I made my way through the show and had lunch in one of the museum's cafes, a very mod structure in their entrance courtyard. Then I went to a second (and much smaller) show on tropical modernism, a look at mid-century modern architecture in Ghana and India and other places overseas. I remembered seeing some of those structures when I traveled in Ghana 30 years ago. Lots of clean lines and breeze blocks (or "brise soleil," a term I did not know).

I was stunned to see the Bolgatanga Library included in the show. I traveled through Bolgatanga, which I remember as a dusty, hot way station on the road from Burkina Faso to Kumasi. As I recall there was a whole lot of nothing. I had no idea it had an architecturally significant library. Guess I missed my chance to check that out!

After I left the museum I walked across Kensington Gardens to see this year's Serpentine Pavilion, by Minsuk Cho. It's an interesting structure -- a collection of structures, really -- that includes a soundscape, a play area, a cafe and a library clustered around a circular patio. The light and shadow effects were very cool. When we lived in Notting Hill I used to check out each summer's Serpentine Pavilion with Olga but some years I miss it now, so I was glad to catch this one.

Finally, I visited Yayoi Kusama's gigantic "Pumpkin" on the grass near the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. Surreal and kind of like a spaceship or big alien pod, but also beautiful, colorful and shiny.

I grabbed a coffee at a cafe near Kensington Palace and sat on the grass watching other overheated pedestrians and runners. (Yesterday was the UK's warmest day so far this year, with temperatures of almost 90º F -- 31.9º C, to be exact.) Then I made my way to the bus stop at Notting Hill Gate and began a long, tedious bus ride home. It wasn't helped by the fact that the bus was packed, stuffy and SLOW. When we got to West Hampstead some guy got so frustrated by the motionless traffic that he hit the emergency button to open the doors, and a bunch of us seized the opportunity to get off between stops. I didn't even know that button existed.

Oh, another peculiar public transport experience yesterday -- I saw a man on the tube carrying a pet carrier, a soft-sided shoulder bag with a dog's head protruding. Only, this was a toy dog, a stuffed animal. I thought perhaps he'd just bought it, but then it would have been in a shop bag, not a pet carrier. Does he take it with him everywhere? Is he mourning the loss of a real dog, or is he trying to figure out whether he wants a dog -- kind of like school kids tasked with carrying around bags of sugar to see what it's like to have a baby? So many questions.