The days seem to canter past at this time of the year. The sun's barely up before it's setting again, and I feel as though I'm pushed for time to publish anything here. I took many notes and photographs over the weekend and thought many thoughts; so rather than let all my pretty things go to waste, here's the first of three tales.
I spent Friday with Terri at the British Library. We met to proof-read part of the latest draft of her thesis, and sat together on our bench (it isn't really ours, but we scowl at anyone who's got there before us), honing what Terri hopes will be the last edit before she submits. When we finished for lunch I took a photo of the gorgeous central tower of books that rises through the middle of the building. Terri pointed out our reflections in the glass:
On our tea-break, I made Terri a card from my cup-holder (actually I felt very ashamed because I'd forgotten it would be Terri's birthday yesterday). It had a tree for the T, an owl perched on the E and, high above, a waxing moon:
Terri said she was pleased I'd included so many of her favourite things. The card was only missing a book, she said, so I drew one on the back.
Outside in the streets, cars and lorries pressed the leaves of the London Plane trees so flat, they looked as though they'd been painted on the ground:
Tomorrow I'll talk about Saturday, which seems a bit back-to-front. Perhaps with the approaching Saturnalia the days are swapping around; so that last week is becoming this, and this week is turning into last year; in which case tomorrow I'll talk about tomorrow, or today, or someday.