View allAll Photos Tagged lithic
A shallow Typic Petrogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
These shallow mineral soils that are less than 50 cm deep (from the soil surface) to a root-limiting layer (petrogypsic or petrocalcic horizon, or a paralithic contact) excluding soils that are in a Lithic subgroup.
Petrogypsids are the Gypsids that have a petrogypsic horizon that has its upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. These soils occur in very arid areas of the world where the parent material is high in content of gypsum. When the petrogypsic horizon is close to the surface, crusting forms pseudohexagonal patterns on the soil surface. Petrogypsids occupy old surfaces. In Syria and Iraq, they are on the highest terraces along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. These soils are not extensive in the United States but are extensive in other countries.
The petrogypsic horizon is a horizon in which visible secondary gypsum has accumulated or has been transformed. The horizon is cemented (i.e., extremely weakly cemented through indurated cementation classes), and the cementation is both laterally continuous and root limiting, even when the soil is moist. The horizon typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils (foreground).
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use. One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about describing soils, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_DOCUMENTS/nrcs142p2_052523...
For additional information about soil classification using Soil Taxonomy, visit:
sites.google.com/site/dinpuithai/Home
For more information about soil classification using the UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy, visit:
agrifs.ir/sites/default/files/United%20Arab%20Emirates%20...
Texas State Large Mammal:
Texas designated the longhorn as the official state large mammal in 1995. "Their long, polished horns sometimes ran six feet from tip to tip...they were lean and lithe, alert as a deer, half-wild, half-savage, half-human." - from "The Saga of Rodeo" by cowboy writer Chuck Walters. By the 1920s, Longhorn cattle had become a rare sight. Six ranching families preserved and bred pure Texas Longhorn stock. They were the Wright, Yates, Butler, Marks, Peeler, and Phillips families. Each for many years raised stock completely unrelated to the other herds. Their efforts planned or otherwise, were the vital factor that prevented the breed from extinction. Today producers of Texas Longhorns either raise their favorite family bloodline in a pure state or mix and select combinations of several family bloodlines. Across the Americas, Canada, Mexico, and parts of Europe, Texas Longhorn cattle are being bred and raised. Ranchers are eager to maintain the heritage, lean beef quality and legacy of this truly incredible animal. To warp up this history lesson, it seems appropriate to quote Dobie again. In his introduction to The Longhorns, he states, 'The Texas Longhorn made more history than any other breed of cattle the civilized world has known. ...he will remain the bedrock on which the history of the cow country of America is founded.'
Karina Bradley wore plenty of ultra sexy outfits during the “Dance Floor Diva” Music Video shoot. But the tight red leather catsuit might have just taken things to whole new heights of exotic! It accentuated every curve in her lithe body, and it looked extra sexy on the dance floor. And for that extra touchthe diva let down her flowing blond hair.
Pop star Karina Bradley has a strong background in modeling. She even appeared in a Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. Combine that with her dance moves and glowing personality, and she has a strong musical background that flows in the club. And it came out in full force during the music video shoot. Especially when she hit the floor in her leather outfit!
sn 008
Specifications:
218 bhp 1,986 cc dual overhead camshaft V-6 engine, five-speed manual transaxle, four-wheel independent suspension with coil springs and four-wheel disc brakes. Wheelbase: 2,280mm (89.75")
Lightweight. Aerodynamic. Powerful. The Ferrari 206 SP is the lithe, sinuous, brilliant V-6 son of the V-12 father. It is similar in many respects, but accomplished with conscious differences.
The Origins of the Dino Legend
When Phil Hill and Olivier Gendebien went to Le Mans in 1962 and were assigned the 330 TRI/LM, the last front-engined car to win at la Sarthe, they felt a little cheated. There were better Ferraris in Ferrari’s entry. There were V-8 and V-6 Dinos. Hill and Gendebien knew the mid-engined Dinos were Ferrari’s future. They drove a dinosaur, and their victory was a tribute to their skill and maturity as drivers as much as it was to the durability, stability, reliability and speed of the four-litre 330 TRI/LM, the ultimate Testa Rossa.
The V-6 Dinos were introduced in 1957 for the 1.5-litre Formula 2 series. Enzo Ferrari’s son Alfredo – known as “Dino” - had championed the engines’ layout, and Enzo gave the cars Dino’s name after his son’s untimely death in 1956. The detailed design was done by the old master, Vittorio Jano. With twin overhead camshafts, the inherently balanced conventional cylinder bank angle of 60° left no room for carburetors and inlet manifolding, so Jano increased the included angle to 65°, then compensated for the timing problem with crank throws placed 65° and 185° apart. It was ingenious, and it worked. The first Dino sports racing cars were front-engined; mid-engined cars appeared in 1962, the models Hill and Gendebien hoped to drive at Le Mans. Ferrari then dealt with the problems of slipping a V-12 between the driver and the rear wheels, and development of the compact V-6 powered Dinos languished.
The Sports Prototypes
Ferrari was challenged by Ford in the mid 60s and responded with a series of Sports Prototypes that have earned their position as the most seductively beautiful sports racing cars ever built. The first 330 P was introduced in 1964 and its design clearly showed its evolution from the 250 LM. The 1965 season’s 330 P2, however, was something completely different and it evolved into the Drogo-built 330 P3 the following year, surely the most voluptuous sports racing automobiles ever seen.
At the same time Ferrari introduced the 206 S, an even more tightly wrapped, reduced scale rendition of the 330 P3 with the same voluptuous, sensuous shape on a shorter wheelbase that took full advantage of its compact V-6 powerplant. Franco Rocchi designed this third generation twin-cam V-6, returning to Jano’s original 65° vee angle. It would power not only the 206 S but also the street cars needed to meet the FIA’s requirement that Formula 2 engines be based upon a production engine with at least 500 units built – which Ferrari met in cooperation with Fiat in the Dino sports cars. In addition to the Ferrari sports prototypes and Formula 2 cars, the engine would later power the Ferrari Dino road cars and even the Lancia Stratos rally car.
Like the 330 P3, the Dino 206 S was bodied by Drogo’s Carrozzeria Sports Cars. It used a multi-tube frame with alloy panels riveted to it for additional stiffness, in essence a semi-monocoque structure. Ferrari’s intention was that 50 of the cars would be built, qualifying it as an FIA Group 4 sports car, but the financial difficulties that would lead to Ferrari’s merger with Fiat three years later prevented that optimistic goal from being met and in the end only some 18 of these wonderful, quick, beautiful sports racers were built. What started out as a Dino 206 S (for Sport) became known as the Dino 206 SP (for Sports Prototype) when there were not enough built to qualify for Group 4.
Chassis No. 008
The meticulously and accurately restored example offered here, chassis 008, is the fourth of the series production 206 SPs built, (The first 206 S was built on Ferrari chassis 0842) and the third of the standard alloy spider bodied 206 SPs. It was delivered to the SEFAC Ferrari team and used for testing and evaluation. Some sources indicate it was entered by the factory to be run by Luigi Chinetti’s North American Racing Team in the 1000 km race at Monza April 25, 1966 where it was driven by NART driver Bob Bondurant and SEFAC driver Nino Vaccarella, but was damaged in practice and withdrawn before starting the race.
Six weeks later on June 5, Dino 206 SP 008 was again entered for NART in the ADAC 1000 km of the Nürburgring, one of the season’s most demanding races. Driven by the brilliant pairing of Pedro Rogriguez and Richie Ginther, both SEFAC team drivers in 1966, the 206 SP started ninth on the grid and drove to an outstanding third overall and second in class behind another 206 SP, the fuel injected chassis 004 driven by Scarfiotti and Bandini, and the winning Chaparral 2D of Phil Hill and Jo Bonnier which thundered to the overall victory. Remarkably, all three podium finishers were on the same lap of the daunting 22.81 km Nürburgring Nordschleife.
On June 18, 1966, still fresh from its podium finish at the Nürburgring, chassis 008, using a SEFAC Ferrari entry, was on hand at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. The car, however, was now owned by Chinetti, having been sold by SEFAC Ferrari on June 10. Chinetti put Charlie Kolb and George Follmer in the 206 SP and they started in 32nd position. After an excellent start, oil seeped onto the clutch, rendering it useless, and on just the 9th lap the team withdrew, a fate eventually shared by 40 of the 55 entrants - 73 percent of the starting grid.
Kolb’s seat at Le Mans foreshadowed the next stage in 008’s career. After returning to Maranello for servicing and race prep, it was shipped to the U.S. and its next owner, M. Schroeder, who immediately entered it in the August 28 USRRC-Buckeye Cup race in Lexington, Ohio where it was driven by Charlie Kolb. Kolb brought the 206 SP home second in class and sixth overall.
Entries at The Road America 500 at Elkhart Lake and the USRRC race at Bridgehampton followed before 008 was purchased by Fred Baker, who arranged to use a Chinetti entry in the 1967 Daytona 24 Hours. A fresh engine rebuild and gearbox overhaul were not completed in time to qualify, and 008 started from the back of the grid as a result. The driving team was strong – Jo Schlesser, Masten Gregory and Peter Gregg. At just over half distance, after moving within sight of a top 10 placing, Gregory made a routine pit stop only to have the engine develop a misfire when it restarted, which turned out to be a stripped distributor drive.
Baker again used a Chinetti entry for his Dino 206 SP at the Sebring 12 Hours on April 1. Charlie Kolb and Ed Crawford started from 20th on the grid, where they remained when the green flag fell, sidelined by a broken half shaft. For the remainder of 1967, the 206 SP contested SCCA and USRRC races driven by Lee Cutler and occasionally Charlie Kolb.
It was back at Daytona for the 24 hours in 1968 after being rebuilt by Chinetti’s NART mechanics. Now consigned or loaned to Chinetti, he put Kolb and Pedro Rodriguez in Dino 206 SP 008 and Rodriguez qualified an excellent 10th among the three litre Alfa Romeo Tipo 33/2s. Kolb and Rodriguez kept the little Dino among the top 10 until another misfire brought them into the pits and early retirement. Baker decided to sell the car, although Lee Cutler apparently worked out a deal to drive it in later races. Before the end of the year he bought the Dino from Baker, marking the end of its front line racing career.
Harley Cluxton bought it from Cutler in 1971, selling it later that year to noted Ferrari collector and enthusiast, Walter Medlin in Kissimmee, Florida. Medlin did nothing with the beautiful little 206 SP except store it among his other cars where it stayed for more than 20 years. In 1995 it was acquired by Symbolic Motor Car Company and given a complete two-year restoration by Rob Shanahan. After completion, it became part of several important Ferrari collections and was proudly displayed at such diverse and important events as Rosso Ferrari at Rodeo Drive and the Goodwood Festival of Speed (both in 1997) and Cavallino Classic in 2004. It was featured in the Japanese magazine CAR in 1998. In 2003 it was returned to Symbolic’s restoration shop where it received a comprehensive refurbishment.
It was acquired by the present owner after completion of the work and was displayed at Cavallino Classic in 2004. The vendor reports the Dino is on the button and is in excellent overall mechanical condition. It is a personal favorite of his and while he has not competitively raced it regularly, he is drawn to its character and uniqueness just as Medlin was so many years ago. Most recently, the 206 SP has been returned to its glorious NART livery as it appeared at the 1000 kms of Nürburgring when, it finished 2nd in class behind another Dino and 3rd overall.
1966 Ferrari Dino 206 SP 008 retains its original engine, gearbox and bodywork. Its restoration is of the highest quality and is fresh and sharp. Its history includes ownership and entries by both SEFAC Ferrari and NART. It has been driven by some of the greats in the greatest age of sports car and sports prototype racing: Bondurant, Vaccarella, Pedro Rodriguez, Ginther, Kolb, Follmer, Schlesser, Gregory and even Peter Gregg. Its ownership history is clear. It is fast, responsive and, best of all, a beautiful gem of a car.
[Text from RM Auctions]
www.rmauctions.com/lots/lot.cfm?lot_id=162971
This Lego miniland-scale Ferrari Dino 206 SP (1966 - Carrozzeria Sports Cars), has been created for Flickr LUGNuts' 89th Build Challenge, - "Over a Million, Under a Thousand", - a challenge to build vehicles valued over one million (US) dollars, or under one thousand (US) dollars.
This particular vehicle was auctioned by the RM Auction house on Sunday, May 20, 2007, where it sold for €2.420.000 (US$2,567,520)
The cult actioner "Wolfen Queen" (1982?) with Pearl Cheung got its Korean VHS release way back in the early rental cycle...very rare tape now
German postcard by Kolibri-Verlag, Minden, no. 1965.
Gorgeous French actress Dany Saval (1942) was the lithe and lovely leading lady in both fluffy comedies and thrillers of the late 1950s and early 1960s.
For more postcards, a bio and clips check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.
I actually came within about 30 feet of a bear a few minutes before I took this picture. I also almost got struck by lightning! This was a dangerous photo! lol. The Chiricahua National Monument is a relatively empty beautiful post-volcanic display of erosion in southeastern Arizona. It was such a great place to explore.
Excerpted from “The Choker-Edward D. Hoch
Also appeared
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (September 1974)
It was a season in Manhatten when the wealthy ladies had ceased to wear their fine jewelry. They wore cheap paste replicas or no jewelry at all, because it wasn’t worth being held up and possibly injured on the way home from some swank dinner dance. That was why I didn’t really expect anything as I lounged in the lobby of the Plaze Hotel watching the arrivals for the charity ball that night.
Then all at once she was there……
,swooping through the revolving door as if the world were hers. She was lithe and lovely in her shimmering gold gown, , like a Goddess imagined in some half remembered dream. In that first moment, however, my eyes were not on that lovely face or figure, but on the dazzeling diamond choker that circled her pretty neck. I hadn’t seen one like it in years, but there it was, catching and flashing the lights as she crossed the lobby…..
In that instant I knew it was real. She was not the sort to wear imitation anything. She could have walked into that lobby without a diamond on her and still caused a stir. If she chose to arrive wearing that choker, it was the real thing.
I left the lobby sooon after that, already plotting my next moves. I knew from past experience that these affairs usually begin to break up shortly before midnight. By that time I would be ready.
What is this? The lady gasped, clearly terrified..
We faced each other on the deserted sidewalk, with the streetlight catching the glitter of her diamond choker.
I showed her the gun sand said, You know what I want, take it off. Come on – I want that choker. Quit stalling. Her hands went to her neck. The diamond choker came away from her throat and she held it out to me……
Alfred Hitchcock's Tales to Make Your Teeth Chatter (book)
Alfred Hitchcock's Tales to Make Your Teeth Chatter
• Published in 1980 in the USA by Davis Publications
• Subtitle: Anthology #8
• Edited by Eleanor Sullivan
• ? pages
• ISBN 0792708288
Contents
1. Black Disaster by Richard O. Lewis
2. Memory Game by William Link and Richard Levinson
3. A Place to Hide by Richard Deming
4. Kasch for Your Clothes by Fred S. Tobey — from AHMM 17(8)
5. One Way Out by Clark Howard
6. Sweet Tranquility by Leo P. Kelley
7. Deathbed by Frank Sisk — from AHMM 19(11)
8. The Choker by Edward D. Hoch — from AHMM 19(9)
9. Not an Enemy in the World by Charlotte Edwards
10. What Difference Now? by Clayton Matthews — from AHMM 13(7)
11. All of a Sudden by John Lutz
12. The Lipstick Explosion by James Holding
13. The Deadly Guest by Helen Nielsen — from AHMM 3(10)
14. That Kind of a Day by Lawrence Block
15. The Slave by Henry Slesar
16. Teeth in the Case by Carl Henry Rathjen
17. The Marrow of Justice by Hal Ellson
18. Favor by Stephen Wasylyk — from AHMM 14(1)
19. That Year's Victim by Jack Ritchie
20. Innocent Witness by Irving Schiffer — from AHMM 7(9)
21. Dead Stop on the Road South by Robert Colby — from AHMM 14(3)
22. We're Really Not That Kind of People by Samuel W. Taylor
23. Weighty Problem by Duane Decker — from AHMM 5(8)
24. There's Something Funny Here by James Michael Ullman
25. The Ultimate Prey by Talmage Powell — from AHMM 19(12)
26. Vienna Sausage by Joyce Harrington
27. Sniff by Donald E. Westlake
28. Pocket Evidence by Harold Q. Masur
Links
• Casual Debris - An Alfred Hitchcock Anthology Bibliography
• LibraryThing
• WorldCat
**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
Some of the stories from the above collection appeared In:
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense
by Linda Landrigan (Editor)
From Ed McBain to Sara Paretsky: a celebration of over fifty years of mystery masterworks.
For over fifty years, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine has been one of the foremost magazines of mystery and suspense. This celebratory anthology features such bestselling writers as Lawrence Block, Ed McBain, and Jan Burke, just three of the esteemed contributors to have appeared in the magazine’s pages over the past five decades.
Con men and criminals, PIs and amateur sleuths, the mean streets of New York and San Francisco, Chicago and Seoul, not to mention eighteenth-century London and eleventh-century Japan. For 50 years "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine" has offered its readers a wide range of the finest crime and detective stories available and stands today as one of the foremost magazines of mystery and suspense. In anticipation of "AHMM"'s golden anniversary, Ms. Landrigan invited readers to nominate their favorite stories, and this collection is packed with popular authors and well-known characters, including Lawrence Block's Matt Scudder, Bill Pronzini's Nameless Detective, and Sara Paretsky's V. I. Warshawski. Linda Landrigan is editor-in-chief of "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine," She lives in New York
This impressive anthology reflects the diversity of every issue of the magazine: historicals and police procedurals, cozies and noirs, humor and suspense. From Jim Thompson in the fifties and Donald Westlake in the sixties, to recent stories by S. J. Rozan, Martin Limon, and Rhys Bowen, this anthology documents
Flint
Grotte dello Scoglio di San Giovanni, Cirella (CS)
Middle-Upper Paleolithic (120,000 - 10,000 BP)
Museo dei Brettii e degli Enotri, Cosenza, Calabria, Italy
Being a slim guy Sebastian's focus on building up his tone, and having some fun with the camera as we work to capture his routine.
All images Copyright Sim Vans. See more of my work at www.simvans.com
A Bronze Age mace-head, discovered during archaeological works carried out between 1992 and 2009 in Beddington, Sutton. This mace-head was made from a naturally holed flint nodule and has been roughly shaped. This is an unusual find and may therefore have been deliberately selected for deposition rather than thrown away or lost.
Man yoga Eka Pada Rajakapotasana pose One-Legged King Pigeon stretch gymnastic acrobatics studio on white background
I found this arrow head behind the house today!
While native toolmaking sites are fairly common around this area, identifiable by scattered chips of chert or flint on the ground, complete or semi-complete points or tools are unusual finds.
The few pieces I have found are either damaged or incomplete. I suspect, based on what I've found, that the point-making process was fairly challenging with a high failure rate, probably resulting from flaws in the stone material.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
The original stone may have been a megalithic marker. The oldest depictions show a larger stone and site it at a different place to that of the cage protected current lithic marker. The outdoor rural court at the larger Birlay Stone under the shade of the Birley Tree first found Marion Lillie who was locally called either the Rigwoodie, or the Ringwoody Witch not guilty. The Rigwoody Witch was later accused again, the Rigwoody attached to her name and label of witch is from the Scots Rigwoody meaning thin, or bony. Her second recorded trial has her sent to further courts with a guilty verdict to present to them. Some suppose that she would have been found guilty there and put to death as a witch. Before the imperfect legal process was concluded Marion died and was buried in Spott Church grounds showing she was not convicted at the time of her demise.
Whether the either the process of accusation and defence were contributing factors in Marion’s death, or not the records are not present to say, yet there is a record, “Many witches burnt on Spott Loan,” this follows Marion’s death and some believe that these many were 13, maybe a number not recorded, as 13 are considered by some an ideal number for a coven and 13 has several wicked and even evil connotations for some. The records and several authors comments are visible through the links below. Some record Marion and link her to a Marion Lillie and some record her as the last witch burned in Scotland. We will never have that perspective that ran throughout the times when Europeans thought Witches were to be discovered, tortured and put to death. That perspective that allowed many to dispose of often elderly women who some saw as hanging on to what they waited too long for. Through the death of the falsely accused person others could be rid of the living obstacle by convicting them and killing them as a witch.
Before society could allow for people differing from ‘the norm’ there were many targets to haul before what passed for justice. Those times for some are not that far away and we can at times act like such victimisation is still completely acceptable. Every culture has people at risk as we seem to realise that high ideals are for art, culture and dreams and that low acceptance is still fuelling violence and inherited intolerance is still simmering ready to burn any that happen to be seen as Witch, whatever it meant back then and for whatever it means today. Witch is a word we say, for some it is used as an insult and a slander. Witches past and present are the ones victimised and victorious in reclaiming our rights to be different and to accepted, to be in need as we all are of the harmony and the balance that comes through tolerance. Witch is just one word that people have used to label and dehumanise another person to such extreme that a Witch being murdered was seen a blessing.
The links below give the history better than I have above.
This was part of a journey to other sites. Some are listed below.
© PHH Sykes 2022
phhsykes@gmail.com
The Witches Stone. Spott Community Association
www.spottvillage.org.uk/witches-stone-2/
Witches' Stone, Spott
canmore.org.uk/site/57667/witches-stone-spott
Witches' Stone, Spott
www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/6453/witches_stone.html
Witches' Stone, Spott
www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=8239
Witches' Stone, Spott
www.johngraycentre.org/collections/getrecord/ELHER_MEL1560/
Spott Church
Easter Broomhouse Standing Stone (Prehistoric)
canmore.org.uk/site/57622/easter-broomhouse
Also The Modern Antiquarian and The Megalithic Portal
Easter Broomhouse Standing Stone
www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/1492/
Easter Broomhouse Standing Stone
www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?x=368000&y=676600
Pencraig Hill Standing Stone (Prehistoric)
www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/1494/pencraig_hill_stan...
Pencraig Hill Standing Stone (Prehistoric)
A Lithic Haplogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
Lithic Haplogypsids are the Haplogypsids that have a lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface. These soils can have characteristics that are common in the other subgroups.
Haplogypsids are the Gypsids that have no petrogypsic, natric, argillic, or calcic horizon that has an upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. Some Haplogypsids have a cambic horizon overlying the gypsic horizon. These soils are commonly very pale in color. They are not extensive in the United States. The largest concentrations in the United States are in New Mexico and Texas. The soils are more common in other parts of the world.
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use.
One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about soil classification in the UAE, visit:
vdocument.in/united-arab-emirates-keys-to-soil-taxonomy.h...
Karina Bradley wore plenty of ultra sexy outfits during the “Dance Floor Diva” Music Video shoot. But the tight red leather catsuit might have just taken things to whole new heights of exotic! It accentuated every curve in her lithe body, and it looked extra sexy on the dance floor. And for that extra touchthe diva let down her flowing blond hair.
Pop star Karina Bradley has a strong background in modeling. She even appeared in a Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. Combine that with her dance moves and glowing personality, and she has a strong musical background that flows in the club. And it came out in full force during the music video shoot. Especially when she hit the floor in her leather outfit!
For more Sophie, click on her album below. (To access her album on your iPhone, click on the information icon at the bottom of this screen; then, when your next screen appears, scroll down just a bit, and you'll see her "album.")
The Watcher in the woods
Pursuing the Posh
A Cat Burglar Saga
From the files of Chatwick University Criminology Department.
C.B. Case Study 13 , File B
Subset Source: Journal
Subject “Harley Q” -- Real name?
ORIGINATION STORY:
flic.kr/p/BcnW2J
Synopsis:
The young lady was approaching sweet sixteen if I estimated accurately. She was clad in a tailored dress of bronze velvet that shone richly over her lithe figure. Her long blonde hair tied in back, flickered like a horses’’ tail. She had come bounding from a ladies powder chamber, one of several located at either end of the grand ballroom that sat off the formal dining rooms.
I fell in step behind her, watching as her splendid jewelry bounced merrily as she pranced along like some untried colt, sorry filly. Her pearls were lovely things, a matched set, double strands all, real diamond clasps, shone gleaming with a pristine whiteness that reminded me of fresh snow.
The pearls were a sweet lure, of that there was no doubt; but apologies if I am prattling n a bit about them, for after all, what is a jewel thief who fails to notice a ladies jewels? A starving bugger, that’s who.
Now I have found out during my times here on the earth that I can make quite a profit from burgling the safes of wealthy ladies whilst they slept peacefully within their fancy chambres. But I had started out walking my morally tainted chosen path by picking the pockets of the unwary along the way. It was my fate to eventually discover the delightfully chilling sensation that was experienced when lifting the very jewels displayed by unsuspecting female targets. And this was still my guilty pleasure, to the point that I would still take that far riskier venture of lifting worn jewelry whenever opportunity arose, which was quite often in my travelled circles.
So, that is why I habitually started to follow this meandering youth, only because of her jewels, which I found to be quite vexing. Especially her earrings, a dangling set held to her ears by genuine diamond studded hinge clasps. I had seldom attempted sets of worn earrings, not for the lack of desire, and with this one’s head just reaching me chest, it was a very tempting prospect to try and pluck em both off just to see?
Fortunately, for her (not me), this pretty miss was a bit too young for my standards to make any attempt to lift from her any of the swinging pearls, earrings or otherwise. I do prefer my marks to be a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more of a challenge to my abilities, thank you very much! Besides, I had already had my eye on a few other, challenging female prospects wearing some rather nice pieces in their own right. Including one sapphire laden Lass in a silky frock that had greatly provoked my attentiveness.
So I just followed this young one while she skirted the ballroom and entered a dining area. There she rejoined, what were quite obviously, her parents.
There were, it appeared, just the three of them, no older jewel laden siblings in sight. But, speaking of appearances, the Mother certainly presented a rather nice one, and so I stopped to drink it all in.
The mother/wife was fluidly clad in an all so elegant purple satin number, poured rather snugly along her still quite lovely figure. Said figure had been made even more eye catching (especially for me) by being emblazon with a matching set of jewels, all set with small 1 caret white diamonds, encircling her neck, wrists and fingers with energetic ripples of fiery colour.
She was with her husband, a distinguished looking gent in tails who may have passed as a Barrister, for which all I knew he was. Now Sandwiched in between was their charming young daughter, who was happily chatting away without a care in the world. Her pristine pearls still dangling, mocking me it would seem, to just make the one exception and attempt to take them home with me. I just smiled to wickedly to myself, maybe someday I would I promised them, once their young mistress had grown up a bit, then we would see who was mocking whom from the wickets!
But I did not dwell too long on such thought’s , or on the pretty family either, for, like I have revealed, I had other fish frying, and only am mentioning this particular incident because of what would occur in two days hence. So after a bit I turned and began wandering off.
But then, speaking of starving jewel thieves, I observed at the precise moment I turned away, a most stunning red head wearing a long black gown that fluttered about, here and there, in a most alluring fashion. She was making a beeline towards the very same powder chamber I had just passed. She was obviously in a rush to reach it, and once I laid my eyes on the pearls she was wearing, I moved towards her in an equally purposeful stride. I intercepted her, letting her bump against me, as I stepped on the hem of her long gown. She stopped abruptly, and I momentarily placed an arm around her smooth waist, steadying her as I apologized and begged the ladies pardon for my clumsiness.
She begrudgingly accepted my apologies, and I watched as she scurried off, having already pocketed the pearled bracelet I had slipped from her red satin gloved wrist, and made my own path. I smirked to myself that the bracelet was some consolation for not having an unscrupulous go for the pearls that had hung around the young daughter’s throat, hung from her ears, and encircled one petite wrist, as I stole one last look back towards the pretty families’ table.
I walked away, turning my attentions back to relocating a certain lady elegantly wearing a silky frock, displaying those magnificent sapphires. I was watching, waiting for her to leave, in order to follow to her next stop, eventually hoping to be led to her last, having decided to acquire the fair damsel’s collection of jewels enmasse!
***** Two productive evenings later ****************
It was at a wedding reception the 2 evenings later that I again, quite un-expectantly, spied the Barrister and his entourage.
I had been having a delightful chat with the newly minted wife of the titled Scion of a rather old family. I had won the sweepstakes of receiving a dance with the charming Miss. But alas my chat was cut short as she was whisked away to dance with yet another admirer. I watched as she swept off, my hand reaching into me breast pocket, fingering a still warm diamond brooch. That jewel had been merrily dangling down from her satin gowns’ cleavage, over shadowed by her ample bosom. As we had danced, I had managed to work open its silvery clasp, and lift the brooch cleanly away. My hidden vest pocket also contained at the time a rather pretty ring with a blue carbuncle surrounded by sparkly diamonds. Said ring had been wrapped around the finger of a rather vexing long raven haired lass. I had admired the silken dress she was wearing, and as she had happily swirled and twirled to give me a better look, I had taken the opportunity to relieve her finger of its burden. Since I was only allowing meself a couple of prospects with an affair this small, I now made my way, leisurely, contentedly, towards an exit (stage right as they say in the trades).
But, no sooner had I put me back to the dance floor, than whom do I spy across the room? That rather delightful miss with a long blonde ponytail, who was now dressed elegantly in cream lace, that I had spied at dinner a few evenings back. It was the very same young lady, wearing the same set of mocking white pearls, and as I discreetly draw near, I soon spied her parents.
The “Barrister” was dapper in crisp white shirt and tux, with a fancy gold pocket watch and fob at his waist. The daughter’s look alike mother was now smartly encased in a fitted red gown that shimmered delightfully as it swished about. She was also wearing a nice display of brite emeralds to boot.
This time I took closer notice of the Mothers Jeweles. Between the emeralds today and the diamonds the night before, this lady in red could be a nice meal ticket if the stars were aligned properly. And so it turned out they very happily (for me) did.
With a few discreet questions from some acquaintances quickly garnered for just such information, I found out where my “Barrister” and his family were spending their late evenings asleep. It so happened that they were staying in a penthouse suite 3 floors above my own modest single. So instead of leaving the reception to scout out a way to gain easy access to their rooms, I could stay and enjoy myself, already being all too familiar with the place. Which I did, later acquiring a gold jeweled bracelet from a charming maiden attired delightfully in teal satin, who had kept flaunting her jewels in me face as she told me all about her perfect self. Another jewel added for my growing collection of the evening.
Now, don’t ask me why I was so familiar with my hotels’ penthouse suites, being a cat burglar, the reasons should be quite clear! So when the pretty family left the reception early, around 9 pm returning to their rooms, I was able to follow them with less discretion then I usually do, but still with growing eager anticipation. Also, even more remarkably, they were in bed and asleep by 10:30 pm, which allowed me a much earlier window of opportunity than I had grown accustomed to having.
And so it was, that soon after the stroke of midnight, with the happy family deep in their slumbers that I, wearing my black burgling attire, climbed onto the balcony of their rooms. After jimmying open the double glass doors with my Fairborn dagger, I found myself in a small sitting room. Carefully allowing my torch to search around I spied a door on the far end. Opening it cautiously, the first thing I see are the daughters pricey pearls piled loosely on a vanity by the bed where she lay sleeping, dressed in white, looking ever so like the angel she is. I picked up the necklace of pearls, eyeing them as I watch the slumbering figure on the bed. But I passed the pretty things up, for even though I am a thief by nature, I do possess some scruples, albeit maybe a little warped! Besides, those taunting pearls had led me to the small treasure trove that was awaiting me in her Mothers’ chambers. So with a silent thanks, I replaced them upon the vanity, and move off…
The parents were found in the next room, soundly sleeping off their alcohol induced haze. The mother was draped over her husband, fetchingly clad in a long satin nightdress that looked almost like an evening gown. Her vulgarly large wedding diamonds flickered pleasantly from her finger as I let my torch sneak up along her shimmering figure. On the bed stand laid the “Barristers” gold watch and a rather pleasing selection of his wife’s gold “day” jewelry, but I passed the lot up, my eyes looking for the good stuff that would be snuggled inside the small room safe that I knew would be behind a false door in one side of the oak dresser ( having already discovered that fact a year previously in a different room of the same hotel)!
I went directly to it, and opening the cabinet door, began to use my finely attuned skills to crack it. It was a simple American lock and only took me a minute to have open. I than emptied the small collection of jewel cases ( lovely things) placing them into my small sack. I also find inside the mothers small clutch purse made expensively of red silk and rhinestones, that had been at her side all evening. Out of curiosity (why in the safe?) I placed it inside my bag with the jewels. After checking that the parents were still out cold, I closed the safe, flickering my torch around one last time, it settles upon her red gown, and its emerald rhinestone clips coming blazing into lively flame. I passed on them, and headed back out towards the door. I had almost regained it, and my freedom, when the husband let out a loud snort, and I heard rustling going on in the bed behind me. I froze and carefully looked back. Neither had woken, but the wife had turned onto her side, and her left hand was now hanging limply over the side of the bed. I watched as the diamonds set in the gold ring encircling her slender finger blazed into life (the ring was somewhat loose I keenly noticed)! Blimey, there was enough dosh in the value of that ring that would have paid for all the expenses of the Cardiff C.C. for an entire season, perhaps 2! But, Bird in the Hand, I am always telling meself, so I left the pretty thing dangling there, and finished my careful retreat. I made it out without further incident.
Passing the daughters room ( and her pearls again), I checked in. The young filly was still was sound asleep in her own pleasant dreams, her taunting pile of pearls still on the vanity, where they would remain. I regained the balcony and slipping over, made my way down to the window of my own room.
Back in my room I empty my sack, the pile of jewels flickering in a frenzy of colours. I admire the little darlings briefly before stashing them. I than pick up the purse and open it. Inside amongst the usual feminy items, I found a letter. Looking at it my heart, already beating quickly from the exhilaration of being on the prowl, skipped one beat, for it was addressed to the lady whose jewels I now possessed, and it was an address of an area I knew quite well. I thought about her address, the house she presumably shared with husband and daughter, the house which should be empty seeing its owners were sleeping just three floors above me. A house that was little over an hour away, only about ¾ of that hour by driving my Lotus. It was a house that I figuratively knew; being in the same neighborhood (relatively speaking) of a house I had reconnoitered and quite lucratively burgled the previous spring.
It was perfect. While the family was asleep snug in their beds here, I could reach their abode, with its jewel laden safe ( they all had jewel laden safes in that area), ½ hour to creep the place, an hour to do the job proper and I would be back in time to catch a two hour kip and be checked out and on my way before the pretty family have had breakfast. It, bears repeating, was perfect.
I looked at the envelope, was its contents that valuable that she felt the need to lock it up. More than mildly curious, I pulled it out and read it. It was from someone named Samuel. In no uncertain terms, he was informing the lady that for only ₤5000 sterling he would leave for the States and never bother her Daughter Claire again. I thought of the young girl asleep in the suite I had just left. What kind of Scoundrel would lure a young girl like that into his clutches with the intent of extorting her parents! For a moment I pondered this bit of information, before deciding that the opportunity was too ripe to pass up just because I felt a small twinge of compassion. Besides, if the parents could afford to cough up a cool 5 thousand, they weren’t hurting in the financial department.
I changed, and quickly gathered my things and headed out quietly via a back entrance. Placing my burgle kit (containing the ladies jewels) into the boot of me two seater, I fired up the lotus’s engine and was off on my little undertaking!
A half hour away I turned down a little used rutty road/path. Pulling over I grabbed my burgle kit and headed down to some ancient stone ruins. Checking to make sure none of my warning snares had been tripped, I entered a small stone building. Going down into one of its old, crumbling basements, I uncovered a small cubby and added the jewels to the growing collection of my recent takings.
Included in the collection were sets of pearls burgled from a coach stop overnight room occupied by a pair of fairly insufferable spinster sisters. Other burgled items were a rather pretty , if not vulgarly large, diamond set obtained from a naive damsel who thought hiding them under the pillow she slept on was safer than a safe, (always happy to enlighten someone upon the error of their ways that’s me), and of course the sapphires that the lass in the silky frock had been wearing 2 nights previous ( along with some rather nice sets of rubies and diamond adorned amethysts that had lain in the same safe, located above her soundly sleeping figure! ) The rest of the lot consisted of items I had “picked up” while on the prowl: a nice collection of brooches, rings, bracelets, and an eye-catching sapphire pendent hanging from a diamonded chain.
I than closed everything up, rechecked my warning snares, and headed back to my Lotus.
Another 30 minutes and I had reached my destination.
The house itself was pretty secluded, located by an intersection of two lanes. I drove its perimeter than doubling back found a pull off. I backed up and turned down and off the road hiding the small sports car in a grove of pines.
Already wearing some of my burglar attire, (black military trousers and sweater), I placed a hood over my head, pulled out my small kit, fastening a torch and military knife to my belt, I was off. The house appeared to be deserted, I found the servants quarters located at the back of the house over a small barn, the only cars were a small sports car in a shed, and a roadster sitting out front. A large garden surrounded by hedges lay to the west of the house, a larger Tudor, with several porches and balconies. Using the hedges as cover, I shimmed up an old tree located by a balcony, and slipping onto the balcony proper, I made my way to the door. Shimmed the latch with my Fairborn commando knife, and then entered into a side bedroom. I was looking for the master suite, and this was not it, the daughter’s by all appearances. I spied a small ornate silver box on a table, but passed it up , on the search for bigger game!
Turning on my torch I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. At the end was a set of double mahogany doors and this is where I set my sights. Along the hallway wall were several rather nice paintings (not copies) and I let the pool of my light flicker along them. Included in the lot was a small painting of a young fox, half asleep, eyeing something in the distance? I stood for precious seconds admiring it, and then turned my attention to the mahogany doors. They were not locked, and I cautiously, very slowly, opened one. Pay dirt! A large empty canopied bed stood in the middle of the room, a love seat to one side, a settee on the other, and directly across from the bed a large ornate sideboard with mirror. Along one side of the wall was a series of chains with different rooms labelled underneath, presumably connected to bells in those rooms. It definitely belonged to the mistress of the house, and, hopefully, her jewels.
I let my light flow over the room, avoiding the window and glass door that led out onto another balcony. I soon spotted the location of the safe; it was behind an old painting of a Harlequin. Said Harlequin was standing on a black and white checked tile floor, as he looked inquisitively into his own reflection from an ornate wall mirror. The painting was located on the wall between the corner and the intricately carved oak sideboard. I slid back the painting on its hinges, exposing the small safe.
It was exactly the same safe as their neighbors, the ones I had burgled clean in the spring. Quickly getting to work I spin the tumblers, listening intently for the correct paths of clicks. Bingo! , it opened up like a dream. Inside I found a bonanza of about a dozen small jewel cases handedly printed with the jewelers names (Cartier and Tiffany’s amongst them! ) I quickly open and empty their contents into my kit, pouring out a delightfully pricey array of colorful gems of all types and styles. Replacing the empty cartons, I rummage around, finding a small stack of gold and silver coins and a couple of bundles of notes, currency of the realm. I favorably pocket the lot.
Suddenly I freeze, hearing the unmistakable sounds of muffled giggling from down the corridor. Closing the safe and picture I back off and hide inside a closet, wishing I had had the foresight to have opened the balcony door to see if that had offered escape, but I had been so sure I would be alone that evening that I had let me guard slacken a bit. I hoped that whoever it was they were heading off to bed.
They were off to bed, problem was it was the bed in the room I was in for which they were heading. I heard the door open, and from the crack in the closet door, I saw a young couple come in, tipsy and fondling the heck out of one another. The female was obviously an older daughter of the house, a mini version of the mother and her sister. She was resplendent in a long flowing cream satin evening gown; her paramour was a beady eyed, weasely faced chap in loose fitting tux and tails. It must have been his roadster outside; the couple must have been snogging in the garden, and drinking wine, judging from the smell and the way they were acting. Again I kicked myself for not checking the grounds more thoroughly. But why hadn’t the bloody twit of a daughter been at the wedding with her family where she belonged? But a bit later I was to reason that if she had, I would have been tempted to lift a diamond bracelet, and me path may have ended there. Missing out entirely, the opportunity to burgle the contents of 2 bedroom safes, master and penthouse!
They headed right to the bed, (doing it on the parents bed, and old cracker that was) the lady not even taking off her long satin gloves, just falling onto the bed with her doe wide eyes gleaming, while her beady eyed lover was falling all over her. Oh god! Samuel, I heard her mummer in passion. My eyes were opened, this must be the daughter Claire, and the beady eyed bloke was the infamous Samuel. Now it made a little more sense, but not any less wicked. I watched them in a new light, my mind going a full mile a minute trying to see a way out of the situation. . “Si vous voulez faire rire Dieu , faire des plans” I muttered an old saying in French, chastising myself inwardly for taking on such a gamble rushed for time.
Now, I am certainly no voyeur, and my belief that some things private, are, well private! But actually, in this instance, there was no choice. I tried not to watch, but the couple’s raw, animal like lovemaking and all its trimmings were happening just feet away. I began to amuse myself by watching the flashy show put on by the daughter’s sparkling jewels and the fluidly movement of her shiny, slinking gown as they were caught in the moonlight that streamed thru the glass of the balcony door. It was the type of show that engrosses any jewel thief worth his salt (hell, any bloke worth his salt for that matter). My mind also kept going back to the letter that I had found in the red silk purse and I hoped that a way would open to cause “Mr.” Samuel some sort of grief.
Beady eyes comes onto her, driving her mind off everything but what he is doing, as her eyes are closed tight, his are open, looking about. I slink in a little more into the shadows, keeping his face in my view. Occasionally a white satin gloved hand appears, rings and bracelets sparkling in a frenzied flickering as her fingers grip his face. Suddenly his eyes open wide as he looks towards the painting of the Harlequin. Cripes I mutter as I look there also, for on the floor lies a diamond bracelet, the fancy bugger must have slipped out as I scurried to my hole. I prepare to bolt like a fox hiding close to where the hounds are heading (my mind went to the painting of the watchful fox in the hallway outside the bedroom).
But beady eyes says nothing..
He finished the job, with her squealing like a piglet, before she slumps back exhaustedly onto the bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing became heavier as she lost all drink induced conscious. I watched as her lover’s half closed eye stayed focused on the bracelet, as he listened to her breathing become heavier. When he was sure she was asleep he slipped off and heading to the vanity scooped up the bracelet and placed it inside a pocket of his tux’s vest. He then crawls back next to her, gently fingering her diamond rings before (finally) joining her into heavy, wine induced sleep alongside.
It seemed like hours, but the whole episode, by me watch, lasted only a ¾ of hour, but it was a precious time I could ill afford to have lost atoll.
I was running late, but knew what I had to do next. Walking over to the pair I watched them for a few seconds, plotting my next course of action. Her jewels were flickering nicely in the moon’s light.
I reached down an lifting ever so gently one still gloved lifeless feminine hand, I slipped off a couple of sparkly rings from satin clad fingers, and unfastened a tight cuff bracelet emblazon with diamonds from around her wrist. Then I lifted the other hand, easily gliding off another brace of glistening rings from her fingers, and a second diamonded bracelet from her limp wrist. Than lifting her necklace of diamonds, I pulled it gently around admiring the way they rippled fire along her throat, till its jeweled clasp was exposed. Then I slowly pry open the jeweled clasp, and slipped the necklace away, watching it sway in the moonlight like a glistening snake. They were both still out cold, It wasn’t really very much of a challenge, not that I was complaining mind you.
I happily pocketed the lot, except for a cheaper ring. I swapped that ring for the diamond bracelet in Samuel’s vest pocket, hoping that the outcome would prove interesting. In the process of placing the ring in the Sammy boy’s vest, I came across his fat pocketbook, which I gladly lifted and added to the collection in my own now bulging pocket.
I then left the room, leaving quietly by stepping upon the soles of my feet. As I pass the small painting of the watching fox, I pull it off and stick it into my kit, a bonus for me extra worries. I than slip back through the daughter’s bedroom, its door now slightly ajar.
In a corner of the room lay the small silvery jewelry case I had passed up earlier thinking it was the younger daughters. But, I hesitated, wondering to which daughter the room belonged, for someone had slightly opened the door for a reason? I shook my head, no chances. But, wait a minute, I grinned as my thoughts grew ever more pleasing. I walked over to the small table that held the ornate silver jewel case (casket was what my Gram had called hers), above it was a small picture of the family daughters in full riding regalia, the older daughter, Claire, had a small pin of a fox in her shiny white satin caveat.
I bent down and opening the small case. There on top was the fox pin, glittering with brownish Sardonyx gemstones and bright red ruby eyes. I plucked it up and added it to my sparkling collection. Then I admired the shimmery collection of gold and pearled jewelry (no lowly silver for this lass). Selecting the better ones I placed them with the fox pin and the Mothers jewels in my kit, then scooping out the rest, I placed them in unceremoniously in a side pocket.
I then went back out the balcony and down the tree. I headed over to the roadster out front and taking out a few of the lesser jewels I had scooped into me pocket, and I began placing them in and underneath the passenger seat of the vehicle.
Finished I admired my handiwork, then looking leisurely around, let out a deep sigh of absolute relief, mixed with exquisite feelings of pleasure of an adventuer winningly pulled off, before melting off into the shadows of the woods. I soon reached my lotus, gunned the engine to life, and then proceeded to slowly drive off without headlights until I reach the main road.
I once again stopped at my hidden cubby and deposited my burglar’s kit and purloined jewels with the rest of my stash, reset my snares, and headed quickly back to the hotel.
I reached my destination just at cock crow, went upstairs and finished packing. It was later than I had anticipated, so no kip for the sinners. I just loaded my luggage into the boot of the two seater, checked my key in at the desk, settled my bill, and headed for a quick breakfast.
But I wasn’t quick enough, for about halfway through my breakfast The “Barrister” and his family came down to have the same. They appeared to be calm, so I knew that my activities earlier that morning had not been exposed yet.
I pushed aside my almost finished plate and standing, walked past them, allowing the daughter, who was clad in a silky skirt and matching satiny top, and wearing those taunting white pearls of hers, to bump into me as she pranced to their table. Steady girl I says, catching her as I eye for the last time her dangling jewelry. So sorry sir, she replied apologetically. I complimented her parents on their charming daughter. The father, in a formal suit and tie, grunts his thanks. The mother, in a scintillatingly swishing long red skirt, and heavy cream silk blouse, blushes prettily. I look over her plentiful “everyday” jewelry as I take their leave. What she was wearing for a normal day of activates was expensive enough to catch any thief’s desire to acquire.
As I walked away, a vision of her walking the streets, dressed as she was, back in Dickens London formed in my thoughts. She attracted the notice of a small street urchin, his devious heart pounding as he left huis vigil from the wall he had been leaning against too closely follow her as she swished by. Catching up to her in the hopes of brushing against her and with a sorry ma’am, walk away with some of it.
This was actually from a memory of mine ( long after Dickens time though) about an incident I had witnessed while working at my old uncles “eel and mash” shop.
A finely decked out young couple (the long haired lady wearing pearls as it so happened) had been inside the shop and finishing their meal, had walked out across the street. A street youth had been hanging out by the shop and had followed them across the street close on their heels. They all turned a corner, so I never knew what had happened, if anything ( which I sincerely doubted)! But that image had plagued many an unsettling adolescent dream with images of finely dressed ladies bending down to a begging young grimy faced lad, well ringed fingers and bracelets jangling as a coin was offered, gold lockets or pearls swaying out from tightly satin clad breasts to just within the reach of his grubby fingers….
I have come to believes that it was the seeds planted in my mind by those dreams that may have very well guided and nudged me onto the course I have continued following to this day.
So, naturally I guess, as I walked away my train of thoughts took a similar course as those dreams/nightmares. I imagined the mother I had just left, walking along a street alone, dressed as she was last evening, the jewels that were now in a cold small cubby, once again upon her figure, glittering their fiery beacon. Then suddenly her daughter, dressed as she was now, was strolling alongside her. The street urchin I had seen that morning so long ago was here also, following close, eyeing the ladies reflected jewels in a storefront window as they walked past……
But at that point in my daydream I realized that I had reached and was standing beside my two seater, and shaking my head clear of such thoughts (once again, sadly not seeing the outcome) I happily hopped over the door and into the driver’s seat, firing up the engine, and quite eagerly pulled away from the hotel and roared down the road.
I stopped by my secret cubby, and without haste, fully on the alert, made my way down to the basement. I collected my stash and made it back to the Lotus without incident. Lighting me pipe, I smiled to meself, promising a nice stiff one once I got back to the abode. I pulled away, slowly, cheerfully, driving down the warm sunlit road. I was now on to new quests, filled with promises of many lucrative acquisitions.
One of those quests was wrapped around a young lady in Soho, who recently had inherited a jewellery collection worth ₤25,000 which she loved wearing out in public, flaunting the richly jeweled pieces all about whenever she could. The quite, almost vulgarly rich, young lass had so many Beaus seeking her affections that she was being invited out almost weekly out to some special dress up affair. This all made her overly ripe for the plucking by some jewelry procurement minded thief. And being one meself, a jewel thief that is, I intended to be the first in line.
Once I returned home, I first visited my London banks strongbox to deposit my newly acquired ” glittering with fire” trophies to let them “cool” down a bit. Then I made sure the Yard received an anonymous post. Said post containing a red silk evening clutch, inside which was beady eyes’ pocketbook( sans money) along with the letter incriminating one certain rogish gent by the name of Samuel for attempting extortion of 5000 pounds sterling from the fair Claire’s Mother. I know how the chaps in the inspector’s squad so love a mystery!
And so, for now dear journal, I bid farewell, adieu.
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Si vous voulez faire rire Dieu , faire des plans
Roughly translated:
If you want to make God laugh, Make plans
Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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The Watcher in the woods
Pursuing the Posh
A Cat Burglar Saga
From the files of Chatwick University Criminology Department.
C.B. Case Study 13 , File B
Subset Source: Journal
Subject “Harley Q” -- Real name?
ORIGINATION STORY:
flic.kr/p/BcnW2J
Synopsis:
The young lady was approaching sweet sixteen if I estimated accurately. She was clad in a tailored dress of bronze velvet that shone richly over her lithe figure. Her long blonde hair tied in back, flickered like a horses’’ tail. She had come bounding from a ladies powder chamber, one of several located at either end of the grand ballroom that sat off the formal dining rooms.
I fell in step behind her, watching as her splendid jewelry bounced merrily as she pranced along like some untried colt, sorry filly. Her pearls were lovely things, a matched set, double strands all, real diamond clasps, shone gleaming with a pristine whiteness that reminded me of fresh snow.
The pearls were a sweet lure, of that there was no doubt; but apologies if I am prattling n a bit about them, for after all, what is a jewel thief who fails to notice a ladies jewels? A starving bugger, that’s who.
Now I have found out during my times here on the earth that I can make quite a profit from burgling the safes of wealthy ladies whilst they slept peacefully within their fancy chambres. But I had started out walking my morally tainted chosen path by picking the pockets of the unwary along the way. It was my fate to eventually discover the delightfully chilling sensation that was experienced when lifting the very jewels displayed by unsuspecting female targets. And this was still my guilty pleasure, to the point that I would still take that far riskier venture of lifting worn jewelry whenever opportunity arose, which was quite often in my travelled circles.
So, that is why I habitually started to follow this meandering youth, only because of her jewels, which I found to be quite vexing. Especially her earrings, a dangling set held to her ears by genuine diamond studded hinge clasps. I had seldom attempted sets of worn earrings, not for the lack of desire, and with this one’s head just reaching me chest, it was a very tempting prospect to try and pluck em both off just to see?
Fortunately, for her (not me), this pretty miss was a bit too young for my standards to make any attempt to lift from her any of the swinging pearls, earrings or otherwise. I do prefer my marks to be a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more of a challenge to my abilities, thank you very much! Besides, I had already had my eye on a few other, challenging female prospects wearing some rather nice pieces in their own right. Including one sapphire laden Lass in a silky frock that had greatly provoked my attentiveness.
So I just followed this young one while she skirted the ballroom and entered a dining area. There she rejoined, what were quite obviously, her parents.
There were, it appeared, just the three of them, no older jewel laden siblings in sight. But, speaking of appearances, the Mother certainly presented a rather nice one, and so I stopped to drink it all in.
The mother/wife was fluidly clad in an all so elegant purple satin number, poured rather snugly along her still quite lovely figure. Said figure had been made even more eye catching (especially for me) by being emblazon with a matching set of jewels, all set with small 1 caret white diamonds, encircling her neck, wrists and fingers with energetic ripples of fiery colour.
She was with her husband, a distinguished looking gent in tails who may have passed as a Barrister, for which all I knew he was. Now Sandwiched in between was their charming young daughter, who was happily chatting away without a care in the world. Her pristine pearls still dangling, mocking me it would seem, to just make the one exception and attempt to take them home with me. I just smiled to wickedly to myself, maybe someday I would I promised them, once their young mistress had grown up a bit, then we would see who was mocking whom from the wickets!
But I did not dwell too long on such thought’s , or on the pretty family either, for, like I have revealed, I had other fish frying, and only am mentioning this particular incident because of what would occur in two days hence. So after a bit I turned and began wandering off.
But then, speaking of starving jewel thieves, I observed at the precise moment I turned away, a most stunning red head wearing a long black gown that fluttered about, here and there, in a most alluring fashion. She was making a beeline towards the very same powder chamber I had just passed. She was obviously in a rush to reach it, and once I laid my eyes on the pearls she was wearing, I moved towards her in an equally purposeful stride. I intercepted her, letting her bump against me, as I stepped on the hem of her long gown. She stopped abruptly, and I momentarily placed an arm around her smooth waist, steadying her as I apologized and begged the ladies pardon for my clumsiness.
She begrudgingly accepted my apologies, and I watched as she scurried off, having already pocketed the pearled bracelet I had slipped from her red satin gloved wrist, and made my own path. I smirked to myself that the bracelet was some consolation for not having an unscrupulous go for the pearls that had hung around the young daughter’s throat, hung from her ears, and encircled one petite wrist, as I stole one last look back towards the pretty families’ table.
I walked away, turning my attentions back to relocating a certain lady elegantly wearing a silky frock, displaying those magnificent sapphires. I was watching, waiting for her to leave, in order to follow to her next stop, eventually hoping to be led to her last, having decided to acquire the fair damsel’s collection of jewels enmasse!
***** Two productive evenings later ****************
It was at a wedding reception the 2 evenings later that I again, quite un-expectantly, spied the Barrister and his entourage.
I had been having a delightful chat with the newly minted wife of the titled Scion of a rather old family. I had won the sweepstakes of receiving a dance with the charming Miss. But alas my chat was cut short as she was whisked away to dance with yet another admirer. I watched as she swept off, my hand reaching into me breast pocket, fingering a still warm diamond brooch. That jewel had been merrily dangling down from her satin gowns’ cleavage, over shadowed by her ample bosom. As we had danced, I had managed to work open its silvery clasp, and lift the brooch cleanly away. My hidden vest pocket also contained at the time a rather pretty ring with a blue carbuncle surrounded by sparkly diamonds. Said ring had been wrapped around the finger of a rather vexing long raven haired lass. I had admired the silken dress she was wearing, and as she had happily swirled and twirled to give me a better look, I had taken the opportunity to relieve her finger of its burden. Since I was only allowing meself a couple of prospects with an affair this small, I now made my way, leisurely, contentedly, towards an exit (stage right as they say in the trades).
But, no sooner had I put me back to the dance floor, than whom do I spy across the room? That rather delightful miss with a long blonde ponytail, who was now dressed elegantly in cream lace, that I had spied at dinner a few evenings back. It was the very same young lady, wearing the same set of mocking white pearls, and as I discreetly draw near, I soon spied her parents.
The “Barrister” was dapper in crisp white shirt and tux, with a fancy gold pocket watch and fob at his waist. The daughter’s look alike mother was now smartly encased in a fitted red gown that shimmered delightfully as it swished about. She was also wearing a nice display of brite emeralds to boot.
This time I took closer notice of the Mothers Jeweles. Between the emeralds today and the diamonds the night before, this lady in red could be a nice meal ticket if the stars were aligned properly. And so it turned out they very happily (for me) did.
With a few discreet questions from some acquaintances quickly garnered for just such information, I found out where my “Barrister” and his family were spending their late evenings asleep. It so happened that they were staying in a penthouse suite 3 floors above my own modest single. So instead of leaving the reception to scout out a way to gain easy access to their rooms, I could stay and enjoy myself, already being all too familiar with the place. Which I did, later acquiring a gold jeweled bracelet from a charming maiden attired delightfully in teal satin, who had kept flaunting her jewels in me face as she told me all about her perfect self. Another jewel added for my growing collection of the evening.
Now, don’t ask me why I was so familiar with my hotels’ penthouse suites, being a cat burglar, the reasons should be quite clear! So when the pretty family left the reception early, around 9 pm returning to their rooms, I was able to follow them with less discretion then I usually do, but still with growing eager anticipation. Also, even more remarkably, they were in bed and asleep by 10:30 pm, which allowed me a much earlier window of opportunity than I had grown accustomed to having.
And so it was, that soon after the stroke of midnight, with the happy family deep in their slumbers that I, wearing my black burgling attire, climbed onto the balcony of their rooms. After jimmying open the double glass doors with my Fairborn dagger, I found myself in a small sitting room. Carefully allowing my torch to search around I spied a door on the far end. Opening it cautiously, the first thing I see are the daughters pricey pearls piled loosely on a vanity by the bed where she lay sleeping, dressed in white, looking ever so like the angel she is. I picked up the necklace of pearls, eyeing them as I watch the slumbering figure on the bed. But I passed the pretty things up, for even though I am a thief by nature, I do possess some scruples, albeit maybe a little warped! Besides, those taunting pearls had led me to the small treasure trove that was awaiting me in her Mothers’ chambers. So with a silent thanks, I replaced them upon the vanity, and move off…
The parents were found in the next room, soundly sleeping off their alcohol induced haze. The mother was draped over her husband, fetchingly clad in a long satin nightdress that looked almost like an evening gown. Her vulgarly large wedding diamonds flickered pleasantly from her finger as I let my torch sneak up along her shimmering figure. On the bed stand laid the “Barristers” gold watch and a rather pleasing selection of his wife’s gold “day” jewelry, but I passed the lot up, my eyes looking for the good stuff that would be snuggled inside the small room safe that I knew would be behind a false door in one side of the oak dresser ( having already discovered that fact a year previously in a different room of the same hotel)!
I went directly to it, and opening the cabinet door, began to use my finely attuned skills to crack it. It was a simple American lock and only took me a minute to have open. I than emptied the small collection of jewel cases ( lovely things) placing them into my small sack. I also find inside the mothers small clutch purse made expensively of red silk and rhinestones, that had been at her side all evening. Out of curiosity (why in the safe?) I placed it inside my bag with the jewels. After checking that the parents were still out cold, I closed the safe, flickering my torch around one last time, it settles upon her red gown, and its emerald rhinestone clips coming blazing into lively flame. I passed on them, and headed back out towards the door. I had almost regained it, and my freedom, when the husband let out a loud snort, and I heard rustling going on in the bed behind me. I froze and carefully looked back. Neither had woken, but the wife had turned onto her side, and her left hand was now hanging limply over the side of the bed. I watched as the diamonds set in the gold ring encircling her slender finger blazed into life (the ring was somewhat loose I keenly noticed)! Blimey, there was enough dosh in the value of that ring that would have paid for all the expenses of the Cardiff C.C. for an entire season, perhaps 2! But, Bird in the Hand, I am always telling meself, so I left the pretty thing dangling there, and finished my careful retreat. I made it out without further incident.
Passing the daughters room ( and her pearls again), I checked in. The young filly was still was sound asleep in her own pleasant dreams, her taunting pile of pearls still on the vanity, where they would remain. I regained the balcony and slipping over, made my way down to the window of my own room.
Back in my room I empty my sack, the pile of jewels flickering in a frenzy of colours. I admire the little darlings briefly before stashing them. I than pick up the purse and open it. Inside amongst the usual feminy items, I found a letter. Looking at it my heart, already beating quickly from the exhilaration of being on the prowl, skipped one beat, for it was addressed to the lady whose jewels I now possessed, and it was an address of an area I knew quite well. I thought about her address, the house she presumably shared with husband and daughter, the house which should be empty seeing its owners were sleeping just three floors above me. A house that was little over an hour away, only about ¾ of that hour by driving my Lotus. It was a house that I figuratively knew; being in the same neighborhood (relatively speaking) of a house I had reconnoitered and quite lucratively burgled the previous spring.
It was perfect. While the family was asleep snug in their beds here, I could reach their abode, with its jewel laden safe ( they all had jewel laden safes in that area), ½ hour to creep the place, an hour to do the job proper and I would be back in time to catch a two hour kip and be checked out and on my way before the pretty family have had breakfast. It, bears repeating, was perfect.
I looked at the envelope, was its contents that valuable that she felt the need to lock it up. More than mildly curious, I pulled it out and read it. It was from someone named Samuel. In no uncertain terms, he was informing the lady that for only ₤5000 sterling he would leave for the States and never bother her Daughter Claire again. I thought of the young girl asleep in the suite I had just left. What kind of Scoundrel would lure a young girl like that into his clutches with the intent of extorting her parents! For a moment I pondered this bit of information, before deciding that the opportunity was too ripe to pass up just because I felt a small twinge of compassion. Besides, if the parents could afford to cough up a cool 5 thousand, they weren’t hurting in the financial department.
I changed, and quickly gathered my things and headed out quietly via a back entrance. Placing my burgle kit (containing the ladies jewels) into the boot of me two seater, I fired up the lotus’s engine and was off on my little undertaking!
A half hour away I turned down a little used rutty road/path. Pulling over I grabbed my burgle kit and headed down to some ancient stone ruins. Checking to make sure none of my warning snares had been tripped, I entered a small stone building. Going down into one of its old, crumbling basements, I uncovered a small cubby and added the jewels to the growing collection of my recent takings.
Included in the collection were sets of pearls burgled from a coach stop overnight room occupied by a pair of fairly insufferable spinster sisters. Other burgled items were a rather pretty , if not vulgarly large, diamond set obtained from a naive damsel who thought hiding them under the pillow she slept on was safer than a safe, (always happy to enlighten someone upon the error of their ways that’s me), and of course the sapphires that the lass in the silky frock had been wearing 2 nights previous ( along with some rather nice sets of rubies and diamond adorned amethysts that had lain in the same safe, located above her soundly sleeping figure! ) The rest of the lot consisted of items I had “picked up” while on the prowl: a nice collection of brooches, rings, bracelets, and an eye-catching sapphire pendent hanging from a diamonded chain.
I than closed everything up, rechecked my warning snares, and headed back to my Lotus.
Another 30 minutes and I had reached my destination.
The house itself was pretty secluded, located by an intersection of two lanes. I drove its perimeter than doubling back found a pull off. I backed up and turned down and off the road hiding the small sports car in a grove of pines.
Already wearing some of my burglar attire, (black military trousers and sweater), I placed a hood over my head, pulled out my small kit, fastening a torch and military knife to my belt, I was off. The house appeared to be deserted, I found the servants quarters located at the back of the house over a small barn, the only cars were a small sports car in a shed, and a roadster sitting out front. A large garden surrounded by hedges lay to the west of the house, a larger Tudor, with several porches and balconies. Using the hedges as cover, I shimmed up an old tree located by a balcony, and slipping onto the balcony proper, I made my way to the door. Shimmed the latch with my Fairborn commando knife, and then entered into a side bedroom. I was looking for the master suite, and this was not it, the daughter’s by all appearances. I spied a small ornate silver box on a table, but passed it up , on the search for bigger game!
Turning on my torch I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. At the end was a set of double mahogany doors and this is where I set my sights. Along the hallway wall were several rather nice paintings (not copies) and I let the pool of my light flicker along them. Included in the lot was a small painting of a young fox, half asleep, eyeing something in the distance? I stood for precious seconds admiring it, and then turned my attention to the mahogany doors. They were not locked, and I cautiously, very slowly, opened one. Pay dirt! A large empty canopied bed stood in the middle of the room, a love seat to one side, a settee on the other, and directly across from the bed a large ornate sideboard with mirror. Along one side of the wall was a series of chains with different rooms labelled underneath, presumably connected to bells in those rooms. It definitely belonged to the mistress of the house, and, hopefully, her jewels.
I let my light flow over the room, avoiding the window and glass door that led out onto another balcony. I soon spotted the location of the safe; it was behind an old painting of a Harlequin. Said Harlequin was standing on a black and white checked tile floor, as he looked inquisitively into his own reflection from an ornate wall mirror. The painting was located on the wall between the corner and the intricately carved oak sideboard. I slid back the painting on its hinges, exposing the small safe.
It was exactly the same safe as their neighbors, the ones I had burgled clean in the spring. Quickly getting to work I spin the tumblers, listening intently for the correct paths of clicks. Bingo! , it opened up like a dream. Inside I found a bonanza of about a dozen small jewel cases handedly printed with the jewelers names (Cartier and Tiffany’s amongst them! ) I quickly open and empty their contents into my kit, pouring out a delightfully pricey array of colorful gems of all types and styles. Replacing the empty cartons, I rummage around, finding a small stack of gold and silver coins and a couple of bundles of notes, currency of the realm. I favorably pocket the lot.
Suddenly I freeze, hearing the unmistakable sounds of muffled giggling from down the corridor. Closing the safe and picture I back off and hide inside a closet, wishing I had had the foresight to have opened the balcony door to see if that had offered escape, but I had been so sure I would be alone that evening that I had let me guard slacken a bit. I hoped that whoever it was they were heading off to bed.
They were off to bed, problem was it was the bed in the room I was in for which they were heading. I heard the door open, and from the crack in the closet door, I saw a young couple come in, tipsy and fondling the heck out of one another. The female was obviously an older daughter of the house, a mini version of the mother and her sister. She was resplendent in a long flowing cream satin evening gown; her paramour was a beady eyed, weasely faced chap in loose fitting tux and tails. It must have been his roadster outside; the couple must have been snogging in the garden, and drinking wine, judging from the smell and the way they were acting. Again I kicked myself for not checking the grounds more thoroughly. But why hadn’t the bloody twit of a daughter been at the wedding with her family where she belonged? But a bit later I was to reason that if she had, I would have been tempted to lift a diamond bracelet, and me path may have ended there. Missing out entirely, the opportunity to burgle the contents of 2 bedroom safes, master and penthouse!
They headed right to the bed, (doing it on the parents bed, and old cracker that was) the lady not even taking off her long satin gloves, just falling onto the bed with her doe wide eyes gleaming, while her beady eyed lover was falling all over her. Oh god! Samuel, I heard her mummer in passion. My eyes were opened, this must be the daughter Claire, and the beady eyed bloke was the infamous Samuel. Now it made a little more sense, but not any less wicked. I watched them in a new light, my mind going a full mile a minute trying to see a way out of the situation. . “Si vous voulez faire rire Dieu , faire des plans” I muttered an old saying in French, chastising myself inwardly for taking on such a gamble rushed for time.
Now, I am certainly no voyeur, and my belief that some things private, are, well private! But actually, in this instance, there was no choice. I tried not to watch, but the couple’s raw, animal like lovemaking and all its trimmings were happening just feet away. I began to amuse myself by watching the flashy show put on by the daughter’s sparkling jewels and the fluidly movement of her shiny, slinking gown as they were caught in the moonlight that streamed thru the glass of the balcony door. It was the type of show that engrosses any jewel thief worth his salt (hell, any bloke worth his salt for that matter). My mind also kept going back to the letter that I had found in the red silk purse and I hoped that a way would open to cause “Mr.” Samuel some sort of grief.
Beady eyes comes onto her, driving her mind off everything but what he is doing, as her eyes are closed tight, his are open, looking about. I slink in a little more into the shadows, keeping his face in my view. Occasionally a white satin gloved hand appears, rings and bracelets sparkling in a frenzied flickering as her fingers grip his face. Suddenly his eyes open wide as he looks towards the painting of the Harlequin. Cripes I mutter as I look there also, for on the floor lies a diamond bracelet, the fancy bugger must have slipped out as I scurried to my hole. I prepare to bolt like a fox hiding close to where the hounds are heading (my mind went to the painting of the watchful fox in the hallway outside the bedroom).
But beady eyes says nothing..
He finished the job, with her squealing like a piglet, before she slumps back exhaustedly onto the bed. Her eyes were closed, her breathing became heavier as she lost all drink induced conscious. I watched as her lover’s half closed eye stayed focused on the bracelet, as he listened to her breathing become heavier. When he was sure she was asleep he slipped off and heading to the vanity scooped up the bracelet and placed it inside a pocket of his tux’s vest. He then crawls back next to her, gently fingering her diamond rings before (finally) joining her into heavy, wine induced sleep alongside.
It seemed like hours, but the whole episode, by me watch, lasted only a ¾ of hour, but it was a precious time I could ill afford to have lost atoll.
I was running late, but knew what I had to do next. Walking over to the pair I watched them for a few seconds, plotting my next course of action. Her jewels were flickering nicely in the moon’s light.
I reached down an lifting ever so gently one still gloved lifeless feminine hand, I slipped off a couple of sparkly rings from satin clad fingers, and unfastened a tight cuff bracelet emblazon with diamonds from around her wrist. Then I lifted the other hand, easily gliding off another brace of glistening rings from her fingers, and a second diamonded bracelet from her limp wrist. Than lifting her necklace of diamonds, I pulled it gently around admiring the way they rippled fire along her throat, till its jeweled clasp was exposed. Then I slowly pry open the jeweled clasp, and slipped the necklace away, watching it sway in the moonlight like a glistening snake. They were both still out cold, It wasn’t really very much of a challenge, not that I was complaining mind you.
I happily pocketed the lot, except for a cheaper ring. I swapped that ring for the diamond bracelet in Samuel’s vest pocket, hoping that the outcome would prove interesting. In the process of placing the ring in the Sammy boy’s vest, I came across his fat pocketbook, which I gladly lifted and added to the collection in my own now bulging pocket.
I then left the room, leaving quietly by stepping upon the soles of my feet. As I pass the small painting of the watching fox, I pull it off and stick it into my kit, a bonus for me extra worries. I than slip back through the daughter’s bedroom, its door now slightly ajar.
In a corner of the room lay the small silvery jewelry case I had passed up earlier thinking it was the younger daughters. But, I hesitated, wondering to which daughter the room belonged, for someone had slightly opened the door for a reason? I shook my head, no chances. But, wait a minute, I grinned as my thoughts grew ever more pleasing. I walked over to the small table that held the ornate silver jewel case (casket was what my Gram had called hers), above it was a small picture of the family daughters in full riding regalia, the older daughter, Claire, had a small pin of a fox in her shiny white satin caveat.
I bent down and opening the small case. There on top was the fox pin, glittering with brownish Sardonyx gemstones and bright red ruby eyes. I plucked it up and added it to my sparkling collection. Then I admired the shimmery collection of gold and pearled jewelry (no lowly silver for this lass). Selecting the better ones I placed them with the fox pin and the Mothers jewels in my kit, then scooping out the rest, I placed them in unceremoniously in a side pocket.
I then went back out the balcony and down the tree. I headed over to the roadster out front and taking out a few of the lesser jewels I had scooped into me pocket, and I began placing them in and underneath the passenger seat of the vehicle.
Finished I admired my handiwork, then looking leisurely around, let out a deep sigh of absolute relief, mixed with exquisite feelings of pleasure of an adventuer winningly pulled off, before melting off into the shadows of the woods. I soon reached my lotus, gunned the engine to life, and then proceeded to slowly drive off without headlights until I reach the main road.
I once again stopped at my hidden cubby and deposited my burglar’s kit and purloined jewels with the rest of my stash, reset my snares, and headed quickly back to the hotel.
I reached my destination just at cock crow, went upstairs and finished packing. It was later than I had anticipated, so no kip for the sinners. I just loaded my luggage into the boot of the two seater, checked my key in at the desk, settled my bill, and headed for a quick breakfast.
But I wasn’t quick enough, for about halfway through my breakfast The “Barrister” and his family came down to have the same. They appeared to be calm, so I knew that my activities earlier that morning had not been exposed yet.
I pushed aside my almost finished plate and standing, walked past them, allowing the daughter, who was clad in a silky skirt and matching satiny top, and wearing those taunting white pearls of hers, to bump into me as she pranced to their table. Steady girl I says, catching her as I eye for the last time her dangling jewelry. So sorry sir, she replied apologetically. I complimented her parents on their charming daughter. The father, in a formal suit and tie, grunts his thanks. The mother, in a scintillatingly swishing long red skirt, and heavy cream silk blouse, blushes prettily. I look over her plentiful “everyday” jewelry as I take their leave. What she was wearing for a normal day of activates was expensive enough to catch any thief’s desire to acquire.
As I walked away, a vision of her walking the streets, dressed as she was, back in Dickens London formed in my thoughts. She attracted the notice of a small street urchin, his devious heart pounding as he left huis vigil from the wall he had been leaning against too closely follow her as she swished by. Catching up to her in the hopes of brushing against her and with a sorry ma’am, walk away with some of it.
This was actually from a memory of mine ( long after Dickens time though) about an incident I had witnessed while working at my old uncles “eel and mash” shop.
A finely decked out young couple (the long haired lady wearing pearls as it so happened) had been inside the shop and finishing their meal, had walked out across the street. A street youth had been hanging out by the shop and had followed them across the street close on their heels. They all turned a corner, so I never knew what had happened, if anything ( which I sincerely doubted)! But that image had plagued many an unsettling adolescent dream with images of finely dressed ladies bending down to a begging young grimy faced lad, well ringed fingers and bracelets jangling as a coin was offered, gold lockets or pearls swaying out from tightly satin clad breasts to just within the reach of his grubby fingers….
I have come to believes that it was the seeds planted in my mind by those dreams that may have very well guided and nudged me onto the course I have continued following to this day.
So, naturally I guess, as I walked away my train of thoughts took a similar course as those dreams/nightmares. I imagined the mother I had just left, walking along a street alone, dressed as she was last evening, the jewels that were now in a cold small cubby, once again upon her figure, glittering their fiery beacon. Then suddenly her daughter, dressed as she was now, was strolling alongside her. The street urchin I had seen that morning so long ago was here also, following close, eyeing the ladies reflected jewels in a storefront window as they walked past……
But at that point in my daydream I realized that I had reached and was standing beside my two seater, and shaking my head clear of such thoughts (once again, sadly not seeing the outcome) I happily hopped over the door and into the driver’s seat, firing up the engine, and quite eagerly pulled away from the hotel and roared down the road.
I stopped by my secret cubby, and without haste, fully on the alert, made my way down to the basement. I collected my stash and made it back to the Lotus without incident. Lighting me pipe, I smiled to meself, promising a nice stiff one once I got back to the abode. I pulled away, slowly, cheerfully, driving down the warm sunlit road. I was now on to new quests, filled with promises of many lucrative acquisitions.
One of those quests was wrapped around a young lady in Soho, who recently had inherited a jewellery collection worth ₤25,000 which she loved wearing out in public, flaunting the richly jeweled pieces all about whenever she could. The quite, almost vulgarly rich, young lass had so many Beaus seeking her affections that she was being invited out almost weekly out to some special dress up affair. This all made her overly ripe for the plucking by some jewelry procurement minded thief. And being one meself, a jewel thief that is, I intended to be the first in line.
Once I returned home, I first visited my London banks strongbox to deposit my newly acquired ” glittering with fire” trophies to let them “cool” down a bit. Then I made sure the Yard received an anonymous post. Said post containing a red silk evening clutch, inside which was beady eyes’ pocketbook( sans money) along with the letter incriminating one certain rogish gent by the name of Samuel for attempting extortion of 5000 pounds sterling from the fair Claire’s Mother. I know how the chaps in the inspector’s squad so love a mystery!
And so, for now dear journal, I bid farewell, adieu.
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Si vous voulez faire rire Dieu , faire des plans
Roughly translated:
If you want to make God laugh, Make plans
Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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Title
Comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau
Case Study 113 :
Warning, these are the raw, bare unusual facts as originally recorded. Some names, times, places and some facts have , of course been altered.
Name: Angelica D circa 192__
Subject: an unscrupulous light-fingered body thief
Event: A Sisters of Mercy charity sponsored ball
Place: The Hamptons
Time: Warm early Spring Friday Evening
It had been a very busy 3 day working weekend for “poor” Angie, a rather handsome lady with flaming red hair, whose life during these depressive years had forced her too constantly work to sustain herself.
The joint where now Angie found herself was filled with a bevy of ladies and girls dressed up royally for the occasion, A Sisters of Mercy charity sponsored ball. The Ball’s objective was to raise funds for the good sister’s bread lines, Angie’s objective was to raise some funds of her own.
Needless to say, she did not fit in with her present environment. The reason Angie did not fit in was, although she was also dressed up in a sleekly colorful frock of her own, she was probably the only female guest to whom the term “working lady” would be an oxy-moron. Actually, it was almost as If her fellow guests sensed this, almost acting like she did not even exist. As she found out almost as soon as she had entered, two ladies were walking towards her, her, one in a long flowing lavender gown and pearls, the other in a shorter grey satin number with a bouncy skirt and decked out with enough silver trinkets to have drained a small mine. Angie nodded to them, but their noses were so held high they didn’t even see her, and the one in grey satin actually would have ran Angie over if she had not moved quicker, as it was they brushed against one another, and Angie had to actually grasp the Ladies’ wrist with the pearled bracelet,to steady herself. Angie found herself on the end of a few rather severe words of disdain as they looked back at her..
Angie just sighed to herself, and watched the pair saunter off, with a rather thoughtful look in her bright green eyes. Her left hand was clasped, playing with something she was holding in it. She then slipped that hand behind her satin sash, straighten it, she did so favor wearing slick sash’s with her silk party dresses.
It was at that moment that a pristine young lady walked by her. Looking like an escapee from a high society debutant’s coming out affair. Her lithe figure was draped in a gleaming white taffeta gown, its long layered skirt that swirled provocatively as she moved, Her elbow length gloves and purse were made of the same material as her gown. Angie’s eyes travelled up and down the passing enchantress (without moving her head), looking her over head to toe , from the spray of white flowers in her hair, to her clicking white high heels. Surprisingly the only jewelry she was wearing was a thick gold bracelet, set with rubies, as bright as the fire crackling in the mammoth fireplace by the bar.. Waiting ten seconds after the pristine miss was out of her roving eyes view, Angie turned and followed. She did not get far, a male voice called out “Sheila” and the lady was met by a rather charming appearing male of the same age, and smiling, the pair trotted off to the dance floor.
Angie hovered for a bit watching the show put on by the waltzing young couple, as well as their paired co dancers out on the almost 1 acre ballroom floor. As Angie stood watching, mesmerized by her thoughts, she first noticed the opened, wide double glass doors on the far side of the ballroom. Many of the well-dressed guests seemed to be coming and going from this newly discovered area.
It was then that a pretty young thing passed by Angie, heading towards those very same double doors. Although she carried herself well, the charming princess appeared to be a little too young to be wondering about by herself. She was definitely too young to be flitting about unescorted while wearing the costly jewels that glittered a pretty fire as she swished about on her merry way. The girl was expensively attired in an excessively glossy, purple satin blouse, a tailored black satin jacket with rhinestone buttons ,and a long silky black satin pleated skirt that fell spilling out from underneath the matching jacket ,swishing with every step of whispering silk at the heels of her black shoes. Her long soft chestnut hair done up in a long plait, with pearls interwoven throughout its length , held back by a sapphire encrusted clip, sapphires sparkled from all over ; ears, neckline, wrists and fingers, even her jacket had a sapphire brooch shaped like a waning moon. Very pretty Angie observed as the young scamp reached the double doors.
Angie, her curiosity now aroused by what lay past those doors, turned heel and with the girl as an unwary guide, followed her towards them. Now, curiosity may have killed a cat or two, but for Angie, being curious usually put food on her table. She soon discovered that the doors led out onto a wide cement patio, off of which was a rather extensive flower Garden, walled in by a rows of high green hedges. Angie watched as the last wisp of the, surprisingly still unescorted, young lady’s skirt disappeared from view into the gardens. Someone should warn her about going outside alone for walks when dressed like that ! Angie thought to herself, but before moving off with the intention of doing that very thing. But she stopped first, checking her surroundings.
The patio was home to a number of mostly occupied tables. With one exception, all the occupied tables were home to couples in groups of two to six, men in tuxes, their paramours in vibrant gowns that spread out quite nicely, spilling down rainbow like coloures from chairs to the cement floor. As Angie looked around, she observed the array of glittering jewels worn by the happily chatting women. Then Angie darted her eyes the one table that made the exception on the patio. Located in an isolated corner, that table was the only one with a lone female occupant. The occupant was resplendently dressed in a shiny mint green gown of fine satin that literally poured along the shapely curves of her seated figure, before finally splaying out around her feet like a soft, shiny pool. Her many jewels were set with majestic diamonds, especially her earrings, or at least the one Angie could see. For the ladies long hair fell over one heavily mascaraed eye, making the lady appear to be a one eye Cyclops, with an incredibly sparkling bright diamonded earing dripping from her one visible earlobe. Angie scrutinized the scene before her as she pondered a bit. Then, spying a shiny mint green purse dangling from the chair behind the Cyclops, a grin, wider than that of the Cheshire cat’s begins to spread across Angie’s handsomely sly face.
**
Why the grin like a Cheshire cat?
**
Now when a young Angie had first started on her adulthood path, she self -taught herself on how to be a pickpocket, ( body thief, and cutpurse were her preferred terms) and progressed to the point whereupon she was able to make a comfortable living.
Back then, as in the present, women of all ages were her preferred target, for several reasons:
A) Easily more distractible, especially the younger versions.
B) Silken and satiny types of dress, smoothly slick, were far more accommodating when preforming a dip or pick than trying the same maneuvers on the more unforgiving formal attire of their male counterparts.
C) Likewise the possessions of women and girls were more plentiful, and shiningly richer than those of most gentlemen.
Now, as was stated, Angie was self-taught. She did this by discreetly watching the pickpockets who worked the back streets and alleyways off of fancy theatres and dance halls in the area she grew up. She also did research by gleaning information from old newspapers and haunting the local libraries.
(See more of Angie’s background in the Album, Angie picks Chicago)
Angie especially liked the methods employed by cutpurses, and found enough success in this method that she still habitually carried a penknife with a long, finely honed, razor sharp blade. Even though she had not nicked a soft purse in a few years, she was still always up to the challenge.
**
So this, then, was the reason behind the evil grin, and the reason Angie now slipped a hand discreetly behind her colorful dress’s satin sash , extracting the finely honed folded razor, which she opened with one hand and concealed behind her back. She walked up, and looking around, let her hand holding the razor drop and allowed the blade to skim across the bottom of the purse as she walked past. She heard something tingle behind her, and then a muted gasp. Angie turned, quite a natural thing to do, noting the lady was reaching for her purse as its contents spilled out. Angie’s practiced eyes took inventory, a calf skin wallet, gold (solid!) compact, matching lipstick container, expensive tortoise shell comb, and several silky handkerchiefs had fallen out. Angie came to the ladies rescue, effectively cutting off any of the ladies at the nearby tables from doing the same. Their attention quickly turning back to their own personal business, as the rich are happily wont to do.
As the purses owner was bending down, her long hair falling totally straight down, Angie comes up and bumps into her as she leant down also. Apologizing, Angie cordially helped the lady pick up the purses’ strewn contents. Angie chats happily with the girl, easing the tension. The girl looks up into Angie’s face, thanking her, her long hair had fallen back, covering her eye, her only visible earring was swaying, still sending out showers of bright sparkles. Angie willingly accepting the young ladies gracious gratitude, before happily waltzing away, leaving the solitary lady to scratch her head over the ruined purse, as she makes sure all the rather pricey items it had contained are accounted for. Happily she discovers that nothing from her purse is missing.
Angie had not touched one item that had spilled out from the slashed bottom of the small silk purse.
For you see, Angie had graduated from being a common pickpocket of wallets and the contents of expensive purses
( as explained in the stories located the albums, Angie having a Ball @ Angie at Play).
Angie now was able to lift things far more valuable, as evidenced by the shiny diamond earring that Angie now had secreted inside the hidden pocket of her dresses’ her satin sash, the very earring that had been hidden beneath the long silky hair that had made the victim resemble a sexy Cyclops. The clasped earring had been exposed briefly as the distracted young lady had bent down to collect her scattered possession’s, and Angie’s practiced fingers had scooped it up and gently pulled it free from her earlobe, without the unsuspecting lady feeling so much as a prick..
Now Angie could have easily snatched both earrings, or had taken a necklace or bracelet along with it. But if she had, than once discovered, it would have been immediately apparent that something sinister had happened, and she would likely have been at the center point of that suspicion. But, by taking only a single piece of jewelry, it would more likely be surmised it had fallen off in the fracas, or possibly even earlier in the evening.
See Addendum SS
**
Angie left the sexy Cyclops, retreating back towards the garden. Now I wonder where the inquisitive young miss wondered off too. Someone really should warn her about going outside for a walk alone wearing all those precious jewels ,Angie thought, not really all that concerned about actually warning anyone.
Angie savored gardens and small parks with the feeling that she had done some of her best handiwork in places like that whenever they were haunted by ultra-wealthy fat cats. So it was with some great measure of pleasure that she now took to prowling this particular gardens maze of winding paths as she slowly made her get away, still open for opportunity.
As Angie meandered through the garden, passing many young couples milling about, happily eyeing the various fancily attired and jewel laden ladies that were flaunting their goods about, she remembered about being in a similar Garden not too very long ago, and the amazing luck that she had ended up having that evening.
(See Album “Angie being receptive” to read about that luck)
Angie turned a corner and saw that there was a side path almost hidden from view behind an untrimmed moss rose bush. She turned down it and found the path almost deserted. At the far end was a small alcove. Angie peered inside, it was not empty. The young miss in the purple blouse and black satin jacket and skirt, was knelling, happily admiring some small cement statues of animals she had discovered. Behind her was a small stone bench that lay before the hedge. Angie noticed that some of the hedge’s crooked branches had formed a small opening to the outside. Angie snuck behind one of the bushes that formed the inner wall of the alcove, and watched with open interest . The happily unaware girl’s sapphires glittered beckoningly, especially her sapphire pendent on its long braided silver chain that bounced on and off the front of her thick, glossy satin blouse . The girls black satin jacket was open, and the waning moon brooch was clearly visible, glittering in the lights of a nearby gas lamp. Angie flexed her fingers, waiting for an opening; it really ought to be an easy pick.
But at that very moment a dark figure came silently through the break in the outside hedge. A Gypsyish young female vagabond, wearing a slightly ragged dress with a colourful long scarf came into the pool of light , and crept up to the bench. The young lady had her back to the bench, never heard a thing, and kept on playing blissfully, unaware she now had, good or bad, uninvited company. The female vagabond only looked about a couple of years older, with a stronger figure than that of the well-dressed girl, but physically about the same size. The female vagabond sat on the bench, black eyes darting about, looking like she was being protective of the young lady in shiny satin, and even shinier sapphires.
Angie rose from her crouch; she had not been noticed, and decided to keep it that way. She carefully circled around the entrance to the alcove, without looking back. Her conscious, like most thieves, clear and unworried about the fate, good or bad, that may befall the stylishly attired rich young girl.
Actually, as she carefully snuck off, Angie’s thoughts were dwelling on how she would have distracted that pretty miss long enough to flick open the dangling silver chains clasp, and slip it and its shimmering pendent from around the high collared neckline of the accommodating slippery purple satin blouse. As she played it out, Angie almost turned back to see if somehow she could still accomplish it, it would be that easy. But she didn’t, and headed back past the moss rose bush and entered back on the main path.
Angie continued to nonchalantly prowl along the gardens long paths, staying to the outer edge she discovered several alcoves that were hidden in a similar manner to the one behind the overgrown Moss Rose bush. They all had been empty, until the fifth one she discovered, located behind a statue of a winged Hermes.
She heard the giggling first, and carefully shadowed her way around for a peek through some of the hedges branches., and what she saw made her perk right up. Angie observed a pair of young twenty something missus dressed resplendently in shiny gowns of royal blue and blood red that fluttered fetchingly as they quivered about. . Angie salivated over the copious collection fine jewels the pair was exhibiting, mesmerizingly flashing as the girls giggled in a conspiratorial fashion. All in all, Angie found it to be a most enthralling performance.
Angie watched as they sat their shiny purses(matching their gowns) on the old mossy stone bench and opened them. They began to slip off their rings and bracelets, setting them inside, than peeled off their long satin gloves( also matching their gowns, and laid them alongside. Then as they both looked around, one bent down and lifted up her long gown, revealing a black garter that held a gold cigarette case. Pulling it out, she opened it and both took a cigarette and started to smoke, giggling away the whole time at their daring. The other than looked around, and bending over lifted her long gown, her brooch dangling, and pulled a small flask from her garter! Then the both took long swigs, and started to giggle even more. In the time it took to do all this, Angie had come up with a plan of action designed to relive the young ladies of some of their finery. “Comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau!” Angie murmured to herself.
She edged around till she was on the hedge directly behind the bench. At the bottom was an opening just large enough to crawl through with a little effort. Angie picked up a small stone and threw it as hard as she could at the fountain. Hearing the noise, the girls jump, and go to the entrance of the alcove to investigate, their purses and its valuable cargo momentarily unguarded. As their colorfully shimmering backs are turned, Angie reaches through and pulls one of the purses down, spilling its contents. She reached in the glittering pile and spirits away a long, serpentine bracelet, and the biggest and brightest ring she could find amongst the group. She scattered the rest liberally about and slipped back before the girls turned back.
Angie waited until their curiosity was sated, and the pair came back inside the alcove. They soon began to meander about playfully, blowing puffs of smoke into each other’s faces, laughing at themselves, as their earrings, necklaces and a fine emerald brooch sparkled ever so invitingly to Angie’s shrewd eyes.
Now for the Coup de Gras, Angie thought as she rose, and walked over to the entrance, entering the alcove with a chirpy “why hello there!” The startled princesses jumped, and twirled around, their gowns delightfully coiling and swirling along their fine sanguine figures. Quickly placing them at ease, Angie looked about, and in a co-conspirator tone asked if she could join in a smoke. The girls eagerly obliged and soon all three of them were sending rings spiraling about. Angie admired their necklaces, and they happily lifted them up for her to see,. As the gas lights touched them, the sparklers came to life, sending cascading showers of shimmering fireworks into the night. Angie’s eyes absorbed it all in as she felt a welcoming tingle wash over her, making her shiver inwardly with absolute delight. But on the outside she appeared calm, and as she commented in a rather subdued tone of voice, “ My that is pretty”, she asked the other girl her opinion. As the girl leaned inward, Angie’s fingers darted in, and cupping the girls dangling brooch in her fingers, felt and flicked open it’s clasp, working it off all in one swift motion..
As Angie stashed her brooch in a secret pocket, he other princess, not to be outdone, presented her earrings to Angie, which Angie also cordially admired, secretly acknowledging that that the one hidden in her sash was far more pretty and valuable. But not as pretty or as valuable as her dangling brooch, which Angie had just lifted.
As Angie absorbed the rich fire of the remaining glittery gems the girls wore, she wondered ( not for the first time!) what attracted her more, the jewels, or the cash they may bring. Not that it mattered at the moment, for it was time to make her exit before the pair discovered the chicanery that Angie had caused, both on the bench behind them, and from the very gowns they were wearing so very fetchingly over their svelte figures.
They gave Angie her leave, cheerfully thanking her for joining them. As she walked away, Angie reflected that it had been a bit of a sticky wicket pulling it off, but she had slammed the score so to speak, and it was with a rather upmost felling of confidence in the luck she was experiencing this evening, that she left the alcoves hidden path and started to meander her way back the way she had come, like with any good gambler, with the intention of leaving while she was ahead.
When Angie reached the path outside the statue, she was abruptly snapped out of her musings as she realized that a man was approaching her. For a second Angie was taken aback, should she retreat back up the hidden path before being noticed? . Then she recognized him, and smiled evilly to herself.
It was the man, who earlier in the evening man had swirled “Sheila” , the wayward debutante in white satin ,to the dance floor. He looked up, seeing Angie standing there. She felt his eyes checking her out, and she smiled oh so prettily for him, her mind going a mile a minute. Where could his dance partner be? The man looked back over his shoulder. Ahh, there she was, standing at a rose bush just by a curve in the path. “Sheila” looked up past Angie, and catching her boyfriend’s eye, he called out to her, promising not to be long, and passed Angie without another look, as he marched away down the path. “Sheila” turned, exposing a back covered in sleek white satin, and headed off around the bend. Angie’s eyes meanwhile had been glued on the ruby bracelet, smelling opportunity, the way a fox smells the feathers adorning a plump hen.
Angie followed at a distance, calmly awaiting the prime moment to make her move. “Sheila” traveled quite away s into the depth of the garden, eventually coming along one to an outer wall of the high hedge. At one point she turned to admire a fountain, placing a satiny white glove on its rim, the rubies around her wrist glistening like mad. Angie, darting behind a nearby bush, was able to fully study the bracelet. It was a tiffany piece, with a clasp Angie knew would not put up much effort to stay clasped around the ladies’ slender gloved wrist.
When “Sheila” moved off, Angie shadowed even closer, she now had a plan, the debutante liked water fountains. Soon enough Angie heard the gurgling that meant another was close by. It came into view, an statue of a winged Midas, water pouring out of the flute he was playing. “Sheila” stopped abruptly, and Angie began a careful approach, the young lady, still with her back to Angie, could hear nothing above the murmuring water of the fountain.
Angie came up right behind her, eyeballing the pleasing gown worn in such a fetchingly manner by her prey. The lady stepped back, coming right up against Angie, whose slipping hands did their magic. Her right arm and hand caught the young lady by the waist, steadying her as she teetered in a startled manner, looking back at what was behind her. Angie had gripped the right side, and the lady looked in that direction, her attention away from her left side, and the wrist from which her only piece of jewellery lay. Angie’s left hand reached around and found its mark. Gliding along the satiny white glove, she lifted the bracelet with practiced finger’s, two of which turned it to the clasp, snapping it open and flicking it off “Shelia’s” wrist in one, deft, synchronized effort.
Come to mama Angie purrs as she sees the bracelet land in a soft bunch of leaves under one of the rose bush’s that lined the sparkling fountain. At the same time she was accepting the young ladies apologies, Angie looked “Sheila “ directly, innocently, In the eyes, accepting her apologies graciously, and calmly told her it as no fault of hers. The young lady left, embarrassed, and Angie waited until the coast was clear and then retrieved the bracelet, securing it away, before heading back the opposite way. She had just passed the part of the path where the moss rose bush hid to the little alcove, when she saw “Sheila’s” boyfriend heading her way. she turned and darted down the path. Then remembering the miss in purple and black satin, she thought she should check in on her. Angie reached the little alcove, finding it empty, nothing of interest except that a few of the statuses were now laying on their sides.
Angie reaches the patio, and without looking about, cuts back inside. She calmly heads through the mulling crown and leaving the same way she came.
As she left, Angie decided to walk a bit before hailing a cabby. It was a rough area, but there were a few people milling about and as long as she did not go down any dark alley ways, she should remain untouched. At the thought of dark alleyways she wondered what had happened with the female vagabond that had come into the alcove.
At that moment Angie spies a familiarly dressed figure, a long fluttering black satin skirt nipping at the toes of her heels, wearing a black satin jacket with rhinestone buttons, covering a glossy purple satin blouse. The figure was walking across the street, alone.
Someone should have warned that young lady about going outside for a walk alone, dressed like she was, foolishly displaying all those precious jewels. No one obviously had, Angie smirked to herself. For the girl now wearing the outfit was the young vagabond girl. Angie hoped the rich young lady was okay,( gypsy would had only had enough time to strip the girl of her valuables ) and not catching a chill, for everything she had been wearing, right down to her silky slips, would fetch the young gypsy a handsome price.
Angie had heard stories about Victorian child strippers – unscrupulous women who would cunningly lure unsuspecting children of the well-to-do away from safety in order to strip them bare of their clothing and any other valuables they had with them. The colder the weather the better, for they would be wearing more clothes. She wondered if the gypsy looking vagabond had heard the same stories. Angie shuddered in disgust. She had morals, aside from secreting away jewelry, she would never do anything else to any victim. She looked at the young lady walking haughtily ahead of her, and she had no tolerance for someone who would!
Angie reflected for a moment as she watched the girl swish away. She was glad the she had left when she did. Once the rich scamps plight had been discovered ( as it would soon be she knew) the other guest would instinctively check over their own valuables. Angie knew of a few wealthy ladies in attendance whom would soon become frantic. Angie started to follow the gypsy girl.
The gypsy girl may have decided to wear the fancy clothes, but none of the sapphires … she was too smart to wear those openly in this part of town. Angie had noticed a small bulge in a side pocket of the jacket, and she knew what was making it.
A soft breeze came from down the street, fluttering the young ladies long hair. A gypsy wind, Angie thought, how appropriate. She closed in on the oblivious young girl, her eyes focusing on the bulging side pocket of the shiny jacket. Never before had Angie ever encountered a satiny pocket that deserved to be picked clean as this one, now almost within her reach.
Someone should warn this girl about traipsing about alone dressed like that. Not me, Angie thought unforgivingly as she prepared her fingers to make their move.
Fini?
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Addendum SS
Now, one of the observations the author of the phamplet noted was the pretty much any lady who loses a piece of jewelery while out and about will go to great lengts to justify its looss, short of someone actually stealing it from her. Broken clasp, loose fitting, melting away(in the vcase of pearls) slipped off
To the point that they will give any reason to convince themselves that its loss was accidental, and almost turn a stubbornly deaf ear that it may have been otherwise
On one occasion, soley to test his throry, he himself stood next to a lady who was lamenting the loss of a brooch. A brooch he himself had lifted from her gowns sash and still, daruingly, had about his person.
On a whim he suggested that he had seen a stranger lurking about, and wondered if he may have taken it while dancing with her.
She totally poo pooed the idea with a nervous giigle, and placing a hand with well ringed fingers onto his shoulder, said, dear, things like that simply do noy occur.
Tis inherent belief has
been the foundation for lifting a persons valuables.master pickpockets in the generations since
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Like shooting fish in a barrel
comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau
Editor’s Note:
Our Thanks to Mr J. Gardner for pointing out the existence of Mr. Monescu’s 1826 guide
Here are some links to videos depicting females not unlike our Angie
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ls8rw2V1QCU&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAZdjhNVjxk&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbLiI9ZFQ8&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XZ8s-R9vl4
Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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DISCLAIMER
All rights and copyrights observed by Chatwick University, Its contributors, associates and Agents
The purpose of these chronological photos and accompanying stories, articles is to educate, teach, instruct, and generally increase the awareness level of the general public as to the nature and intent of the underlying criminal elements that have historically plagued humankind.
No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.
These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
As with any work of fiction or fantasy the purpose is for entertainment and/or educational purposes only, and should never be attempted in real life.
We accept no responsibility for any events occurring outside this website.
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Lunaite - lunar breccia (Northwest Africa 11517 Meteorite). (intact, weathered individual; ~2.5 centimeters across at its widest)
This Moon rock, NWA 11517, was found in 2017 in northwestern Africa, near Tindouf, Algeria. It has been classified as a "lunar feldspathic breccia", which is not a great lithologic term. The rock is rich in calcic plagioclase feldspar, but the clasts are a mix of different rock types and mineral types. A better term is "lunar lithic breccia" or "lunar polymict breccia". Reported clast types includes various igneous rocks (gabbro, anorthosite, basalt, vitrophyre), impact melt rocks, and mineral fragments (olivine, pyroxene, baddeleyite, ulvospinel, ilmenite, chromite, troilite, kamacite, taenite). The matrix surrounding the small angular clasts is microvesicular. The orangish brown-colored material covering portions of the surface is from weathering while on Earth - this has been identified as "caliche", even though it is not. No fusion crust is present.
Only four samples of NWA 11517 are known. This is the second-largest of those rocks. The four specimens weigh 88 grams in total.
However, NWA 11517 is paired with at least 30 other northwestern Africa meteorites. It is a member of the NWA 8046 clan, also known as the Algerian Megafind. Many unnamed, unclassified specimens also belong to this group. Together, they make up the largest known lunar meteorite - a total of about 65 kilograms of material is currently known.
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More info. on NWA 11517 and the NWA 8046 clan:
www.lpi.usra.edu/meteor/metbull.php?sea=NWA&sfor=name...
and
Excavated from site E2996 Ballyvass, N9/N10 Kilcullen to Waterford Scheme, Contract 5.
Photographed by: Hannah Sims, 2009
Client: Kildare County Council
Funding body: National Roads Authority (NRA) with funds from the NDP and Transport 21
sn 008
Specifications:
218 bhp 1,986 cc dual overhead camshaft V-6 engine, five-speed manual transaxle, four-wheel independent suspension with coil springs and four-wheel disc brakes. Wheelbase: 2,280mm (89.75")
Lightweight. Aerodynamic. Powerful. The Ferrari 206 SP is the lithe, sinuous, brilliant V-6 son of the V-12 father. It is similar in many respects, but accomplished with conscious differences.
The Origins of the Dino Legend
When Phil Hill and Olivier Gendebien went to Le Mans in 1962 and were assigned the 330 TRI/LM, the last front-engined car to win at la Sarthe, they felt a little cheated. There were better Ferraris in Ferrari’s entry. There were V-8 and V-6 Dinos. Hill and Gendebien knew the mid-engined Dinos were Ferrari’s future. They drove a dinosaur, and their victory was a tribute to their skill and maturity as drivers as much as it was to the durability, stability, reliability and speed of the four-litre 330 TRI/LM, the ultimate Testa Rossa.
The V-6 Dinos were introduced in 1957 for the 1.5-litre Formula 2 series. Enzo Ferrari’s son Alfredo – known as “Dino” - had championed the engines’ layout, and Enzo gave the cars Dino’s name after his son’s untimely death in 1956. The detailed design was done by the old master, Vittorio Jano. With twin overhead camshafts, the inherently balanced conventional cylinder bank angle of 60° left no room for carburetors and inlet manifolding, so Jano increased the included angle to 65°, then compensated for the timing problem with crank throws placed 65° and 185° apart. It was ingenious, and it worked. The first Dino sports racing cars were front-engined; mid-engined cars appeared in 1962, the models Hill and Gendebien hoped to drive at Le Mans. Ferrari then dealt with the problems of slipping a V-12 between the driver and the rear wheels, and development of the compact V-6 powered Dinos languished.
The Sports Prototypes
Ferrari was challenged by Ford in the mid 60s and responded with a series of Sports Prototypes that have earned their position as the most seductively beautiful sports racing cars ever built. The first 330 P was introduced in 1964 and its design clearly showed its evolution from the 250 LM. The 1965 season’s 330 P2, however, was something completely different and it evolved into the Drogo-built 330 P3 the following year, surely the most voluptuous sports racing automobiles ever seen.
At the same time Ferrari introduced the 206 S, an even more tightly wrapped, reduced scale rendition of the 330 P3 with the same voluptuous, sensuous shape on a shorter wheelbase that took full advantage of its compact V-6 powerplant. Franco Rocchi designed this third generation twin-cam V-6, returning to Jano’s original 65° vee angle. It would power not only the 206 S but also the street cars needed to meet the FIA’s requirement that Formula 2 engines be based upon a production engine with at least 500 units built – which Ferrari met in cooperation with Fiat in the Dino sports cars. In addition to the Ferrari sports prototypes and Formula 2 cars, the engine would later power the Ferrari Dino road cars and even the Lancia Stratos rally car.
Like the 330 P3, the Dino 206 S was bodied by Drogo’s Carrozzeria Sports Cars. It used a multi-tube frame with alloy panels riveted to it for additional stiffness, in essence a semi-monocoque structure. Ferrari’s intention was that 50 of the cars would be built, qualifying it as an FIA Group 4 sports car, but the financial difficulties that would lead to Ferrari’s merger with Fiat three years later prevented that optimistic goal from being met and in the end only some 18 of these wonderful, quick, beautiful sports racers were built. What started out as a Dino 206 S (for Sport) became known as the Dino 206 SP (for Sports Prototype) when there were not enough built to qualify for Group 4.
Chassis No. 008
The meticulously and accurately restored example offered here, chassis 008, is the fourth of the series production 206 SPs built, (The first 206 S was built on Ferrari chassis 0842) and the third of the standard alloy spider bodied 206 SPs. It was delivered to the SEFAC Ferrari team and used for testing and evaluation. Some sources indicate it was entered by the factory to be run by Luigi Chinetti’s North American Racing Team in the 1000 km race at Monza April 25, 1966 where it was driven by NART driver Bob Bondurant and SEFAC driver Nino Vaccarella, but was damaged in practice and withdrawn before starting the race.
Six weeks later on June 5, Dino 206 SP 008 was again entered for NART in the ADAC 1000 km of the Nürburgring, one of the season’s most demanding races. Driven by the brilliant pairing of Pedro Rogriguez and Richie Ginther, both SEFAC team drivers in 1966, the 206 SP started ninth on the grid and drove to an outstanding third overall and second in class behind another 206 SP, the fuel injected chassis 004 driven by Scarfiotti and Bandini, and the winning Chaparral 2D of Phil Hill and Jo Bonnier which thundered to the overall victory. Remarkably, all three podium finishers were on the same lap of the daunting 22.81 km Nürburgring Nordschleife.
On June 18, 1966, still fresh from its podium finish at the Nürburgring, chassis 008, using a SEFAC Ferrari entry, was on hand at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. The car, however, was now owned by Chinetti, having been sold by SEFAC Ferrari on June 10. Chinetti put Charlie Kolb and George Follmer in the 206 SP and they started in 32nd position. After an excellent start, oil seeped onto the clutch, rendering it useless, and on just the 9th lap the team withdrew, a fate eventually shared by 40 of the 55 entrants - 73 percent of the starting grid.
Kolb’s seat at Le Mans foreshadowed the next stage in 008’s career. After returning to Maranello for servicing and race prep, it was shipped to the U.S. and its next owner, M. Schroeder, who immediately entered it in the August 28 USRRC-Buckeye Cup race in Lexington, Ohio where it was driven by Charlie Kolb. Kolb brought the 206 SP home second in class and sixth overall.
Entries at The Road America 500 at Elkhart Lake and the USRRC race at Bridgehampton followed before 008 was purchased by Fred Baker, who arranged to use a Chinetti entry in the 1967 Daytona 24 Hours. A fresh engine rebuild and gearbox overhaul were not completed in time to qualify, and 008 started from the back of the grid as a result. The driving team was strong – Jo Schlesser, Masten Gregory and Peter Gregg. At just over half distance, after moving within sight of a top 10 placing, Gregory made a routine pit stop only to have the engine develop a misfire when it restarted, which turned out to be a stripped distributor drive.
Baker again used a Chinetti entry for his Dino 206 SP at the Sebring 12 Hours on April 1. Charlie Kolb and Ed Crawford started from 20th on the grid, where they remained when the green flag fell, sidelined by a broken half shaft. For the remainder of 1967, the 206 SP contested SCCA and USRRC races driven by Lee Cutler and occasionally Charlie Kolb.
It was back at Daytona for the 24 hours in 1968 after being rebuilt by Chinetti’s NART mechanics. Now consigned or loaned to Chinetti, he put Kolb and Pedro Rodriguez in Dino 206 SP 008 and Rodriguez qualified an excellent 10th among the three litre Alfa Romeo Tipo 33/2s. Kolb and Rodriguez kept the little Dino among the top 10 until another misfire brought them into the pits and early retirement. Baker decided to sell the car, although Lee Cutler apparently worked out a deal to drive it in later races. Before the end of the year he bought the Dino from Baker, marking the end of its front line racing career.
Harley Cluxton bought it from Cutler in 1971, selling it later that year to noted Ferrari collector and enthusiast, Walter Medlin in Kissimmee, Florida. Medlin did nothing with the beautiful little 206 SP except store it among his other cars where it stayed for more than 20 years. In 1995 it was acquired by Symbolic Motor Car Company and given a complete two-year restoration by Rob Shanahan. After completion, it became part of several important Ferrari collections and was proudly displayed at such diverse and important events as Rosso Ferrari at Rodeo Drive and the Goodwood Festival of Speed (both in 1997) and Cavallino Classic in 2004. It was featured in the Japanese magazine CAR in 1998. In 2003 it was returned to Symbolic’s restoration shop where it received a comprehensive refurbishment.
It was acquired by the present owner after completion of the work and was displayed at Cavallino Classic in 2004. The vendor reports the Dino is on the button and is in excellent overall mechanical condition. It is a personal favorite of his and while he has not competitively raced it regularly, he is drawn to its character and uniqueness just as Medlin was so many years ago. Most recently, the 206 SP has been returned to its glorious NART livery as it appeared at the 1000 kms of Nürburgring when, it finished 2nd in class behind another Dino and 3rd overall.
1966 Ferrari Dino 206 SP 008 retains its original engine, gearbox and bodywork. Its restoration is of the highest quality and is fresh and sharp. Its history includes ownership and entries by both SEFAC Ferrari and NART. It has been driven by some of the greats in the greatest age of sports car and sports prototype racing: Bondurant, Vaccarella, Pedro Rodriguez, Ginther, Kolb, Follmer, Schlesser, Gregory and even Peter Gregg. Its ownership history is clear. It is fast, responsive and, best of all, a beautiful gem of a car.
[Text from RM Auctions]
www.rmauctions.com/lots/lot.cfm?lot_id=162971
This Lego miniland-scale Ferrari Dino 206 SP (1966 - Carrozzeria Sports Cars), has been created for Flickr LUGNuts' 89th Build Challenge, - "Over a Million, Under a Thousand", - a challenge to build vehicles valued over one million (US) dollars, or under one thousand (US) dollars.
This particular vehicle was auctioned by the RM Auction house on Sunday, May 20, 2007, where it sold for €2.420.000 (US$2,567,520)
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
A representative soil profile of the Knuckle soil series. (Soil Survey of Pinnacles National Monument, California; by Ken Oster, Natural Resources Conservation Service)
The Knuckle series consists of shallow to bedrock, somewhat excessively drained soils that formed in rhyolite. The Knuckle soils are on hills. Slopes range from 35 to 70 percent. The mean annual precipitation is about 17 inches (432 millimeters) and the mean annual air temperature is about 61 degrees F (16 degrees C).
TAXONOMIC CLASS: Sandy-skeletal, mixed, thermic Lithic Xerorthents
Depth to bedrock: 6 to 20 inches (16 to 50 centimeters).
Mean annual soil temperature: 60 to 63 degrees F (16 to 17 degrees C).
Soil moisture control section: dry in all parts from about May 15 to November 15 (180 days), and moist in all parts from about January 15 to April 15 (90 days).
Particle size control section: 2 to 15 percent clay, 35 to 60 percent rock fragments from rhyolite.
USE AND VEGETATION: This soil is used for watershed, wildlife habitat and recreation. Vegetation is sparse chamise chaparral.
DISTRIBUTION AND EXTENT: San Benito County, California in MLRA 15 -- Central California Coast Range. These soils are of small extent. San Benito County, California. Source of name from Knuckle Ridge. This series was established based on limited acreage observed within the National Park Service Pinnacles National Monument boundary.
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/california/CA7...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/K/KNUCKLE.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
Soil profile: A representative soil profile of the Sogn series. The shallow, clayey Sogn soils formed directly over limestone.
Landscape: In Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, Labette and Sogn soils dominate the level uplands. (Soil Survey of Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, Kansas; United States Department of Agriculture, Natural Resources Conservation Service, and United States Department of the Interior, National Park Service)
The Sogn series consists of shallow and very shallow, somewhat excessively drained, soils that formed in residuum weathered from limestone. Sogn soils are on hillslopes on uplands in Bluestem Hills, MLRA 76. Slopes range from 0 to 45 percent. Mean annual precipitation is about 840 millimeters (33 inches), and mean annual temperature is about 13 degrees C (55 degrees F) at the type location.
TAXONOMIC CLASS: Clayey, mixed, superactive, mesic Lithic Haplustolls
Soil moisture regime: Ustic bordering on Udic
Soil temperature regime: mesic
Mollic epipedon thickness: 10 to 49 centimeters (4 to 20 inches)
Depth to lithic contact: 10 to 49 centimeters (4 to 20 inches)
Particle-size control section (weighted average):
Clay content: 35 to 44 percent
Sand content: 2 to 14 percent
Rock fragments: 0 to 34 percent limestone gravels and channers
Some pedons do not contain free carbonates above the bedrock.
USE AND VEGETATION: Almost all areas are used for rangeland. Native vegetation is a tall-and mid-grass prairie. Sideoats grama, big bluestem, and little bluestem are dominant.
DISTRIBUTION AND EXTENT: Mostly in eastern Kansas, and widely spaced small areas are in western Missouri, eastern Iowa and Nebraska, northwestern Illinois, southeastern South Dakota, southern Minnesota, and southwestern Wisconsin..The Sogn series is extensive.
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/kansas/Tallgra...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/S/SOGN.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
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