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Hot hot hot
That's London for us, or more precisely: our room. Which has a central heating that reminds me of travels to Russia in the depth of winter: it's not even on or off, with no degrees between. It's on or on and jam a used bottle in the window frame so that at least there's some oxygen in the room, too. Really, how they built an empire with plumbing like this remains a mystery.
Yesterday an hour at Forbidden Planet reminded me that, no, I'm no geek, after all - all those kilometres of shelves with obscure comics and such, and all I buy is an old Hägar the Horrible edition. And a cool Star Wars Shirt for Precious. :)
And now it's the tube at rush hour (isn't that where all those nice Arthur never takes the tube but today his Aston Martin broke down and promptly he bumps into this guy with the gorgeous cheekbones that make him forget tube-induced germ infections-stories start?) and then Pre-Raphaelites at the Tate. Huzzah!
Yesterday an hour at Forbidden Planet reminded me that, no, I'm no geek, after all - all those kilometres of shelves with obscure comics and such, and all I buy is an old Hägar the Horrible edition. And a cool Star Wars Shirt for Precious. :)
And now it's the tube at rush hour (isn't that where all those nice Arthur never takes the tube but today his Aston Martin broke down and promptly he bumps into this guy with the gorgeous cheekbones that make him forget tube-induced germ infections-stories start?) and then Pre-Raphaelites at the Tate. Huzzah!