Sometimes there just aren’t any explanations

The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn.

Stephen Fry, from The Ode Less Travelled

The next few posts won’t be chronologically sequential, but that’s not really important in any scheme of things now, is it?

I had a week’s vacation about to begin. I had a lovely invitation to spend time in Malaga. I’m in London with a colleague and 19 students.

Photos from the first day, not including photos of the students.

The Bull’s Blood is  far better wine now than I remember from many years ago.  It and the pasta were my last meal.

I sat in one spot and watched people come and go into and out of the frame.

I saw a man leap from the Tower Bridge and get swiftly taken down river and out of sight.

If I Fell


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