My cup of coffee

We considered a spot of cycling but the weather is against us. I have visions of me skidding along on my elbows in the opposite direction to the bike.

I considered going to the Tate but couldn't be bothered to get dressed.



I decide, after two years of them gathering dust, to arrange the statue photos into order and stick them in a book. After various exclamations and questions beginning "Where the fuck...?" the seemingly innocuous "I seem to have lost Queen Victoria in Kensington Gardens, seated, " tips C. over the edge. I can only guess he is seeking sanctuary in the bookies. (He isn't gone long; too early on a Sunday to be open). Perhaps I should point out, in his defence, that his sofa is in front of my bookshelves and I do make him (and the sofa) move so I can find a blank book, then the photos, then E.V. Lucas himself... I feel I may have been forgiven, when unprompted, he brings me a box of photo corners. I don't point out that they are the one thing I laid my hands straight on thanks to my desk. Third drawer down on the right.


It is strange though. I'm also at a loss to find the Duke of York "of discreditable memory on his column in Waterloo Place, doing all he can by his sheer existence to depreciate the value of the national tribute to Nelson close by", Queen Anne by "her beautiful gate" and Wellington at Hyde Park Corner.

I need a new project now. I keep taking Macauley and Browne's The Night Side of London (1902) from the shelf but I'm not a night person; I'd never stay awake. I've yet to come across London Mornings which would clearly be much more my cup of coffee.