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Slender Robberfly (Genus Leptogaster). My first time observing this genus of lithe robber fly [Lower Blue Mountains, NSW]
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Hunter's ballet with the caught and carried. (2:59 PM)
The osprey – a.k.a. the sea hawk, fish hawk, and river hawk – is an aerial angler that glides high over shallow waters targeting unsuspecting fish. This lean, rapacious raptor hunts . . . prowling . . . circling . . . a bandit’s dark mask stretched around golden eyes staring down from 30 to 130 feet above the water searching for prey. Ospreys have extraordinary vision seeing through reflection and glare on the water’s surface to zero-in on a fish below. Their wide wingspan can extend to six feet, wings offering a fine display of feathers and finishing at the tips with four long, lithe feathers, widely splayed and finger-like, moving through air with grace and flair. The osprey flies with power and ease, maneuvering with an artistry of rhythm, a geometry reborn.
As the osprey soars and scans, it may pause, hover, flapping its wings as if treading air, making sure, waiting for the right moment to dive bold and hard, head first, wings adjusting, plummeting at speeds clocked at 50 mph. At the last moment, just before striking, the osprey extends its long legs and fierce talons, either skimming the water to scoop or plunging hard to grasp its slippery prey. The osprey is equipped with lethal feet, barbed and biting - the inside of each covered with tiny needle-like spicules; and the four long and scaly toes terminating in talons long and dark, curved and sharp. A reversible outer toe that swivels to the rear gives each claw two grasping talons in front and two behind - the perfect tools to clamp a lethal lock onto a slippery fish.
When the osprey hits the water and the grab is made, it’s time to become airborne again. The osprey is light – on average only 3 to 4.5 pounds - and he or she may seize a sizable fish, wriggling, trying to head down and deep to get away. Tremendous strength and exertion are often needed to get up and away with the prize. The oily coating on its wings makes shedding water easier, and the osprey’s powerful wings will arch or kink to form an M, allowing a technique for lifting itself and its captive from immersion.
Once the osprey clears the water, it carries its catch – fish head facing forward - back to its nest or perch. The osprey’s beak is hooked and sharp, appropriately bladelike for slicing or ripping into fish. Usually the osprey will eat the head of the fish first. At the nest, osprey parents will eat and tear the fish into small pieces for their chicks to eat – such feeding will continue until the young are able to hunt and survive on their own.
But the osprey’s hunt for fish is a battle not always won. Sometimes an eagle will play the pirate, bullying or attacking an osprey, forcing it to drop its catch. A clever eagle may even snag the dropped booty in mid-air. An osprey may also release a fish if it is too heavy or aggressive for the osprey to become airborne. Sometimes, an osprey’s talons will hook and get stuck in its victim, and if the fish is strong and heavy, if the osprey becomes fatigued and is unable to release its catch, predator and prey may sink – a fatal encounter for both.
The osprey is joy to watch - its hunter’s instincts and tactics, aerial acrobatics, and ability to plunge into the sea and then elevate with a struggling captive. I have seen an osprey dive into a frenzy of fish and rise out of the melee with a fish in each claw. I wondered how the osprey might feel at such moment - if beneath the fierce look in his golden eye, he might feel a special thrill – the way a golfer does in hitting a hole-in-one or the way a kid might feel standing with an ice cream cone in each hand.
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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A Typic Haplogypsid, salidic from the interior of the UAE.
Typic Haplogypsids are the Haplogypsids that do not have have a gypsic horizon with its upper boundary within 18 cm of the soil surface. These soils do not have a lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface. In the United States they occur in Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico.
In addition, this pedon has an ECe of more than 8 to less than 30 dS m −1 in a layer 10 cm or more thick at a depth of 100 to 200 cm (salidic phase).
Phases of soil taxa have been developed for those mineral soils that have soil properties or characteristics that occur at a deeper depth than currently identified for an established taxonomic subgroup or soil properties that effect interpretations not currently recognized at the subgroup level. The phases which have been identified in the UAE include: anhydritic, aquic, calcic, gypsic, lithic, petrocalcic, petrogypsic, salic, salidic, shelly, and sodic.
The gypsic horizon is a horizon in which gypsum has accumulated or been transformed to a significant extent (secondary gypsum (CaSO4) has accumulated through more than 150 mm of soil, so that this horizon contains at least 5% more gypsum than the underlying horizon). It typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils.
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 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...
Mission accomplished. (2:59 PM) 3161
The osprey – a.k.a. the sea hawk, fish hawk, and river hawk – is an aerial angler that glides high over shallow waters targeting unsuspecting fish. This lean, rapacious raptor hunts . . . prowling . . . circling . . . a bandit’s dark mask stretched around golden eyes staring down from 30 to 130 feet above the water searching for prey. Ospreys have extraordinary vision seeing through reflection and glare on the water’s surface to zero-in on a fish below. Their wide wingspan can extend to six feet, wings offering a fine display of feathers and finishing at the tips with four long, lithe feathers, widely splayed and finger-like, moving through air with grace and flair. The osprey flies with power and ease, maneuvering with an artistry of rhythm, a geometry reborn.
As the osprey soars and scans, it may pause, hover, flapping its wings as if treading air, making sure, waiting for the right moment to dive bold and hard, head first, wings adjusting, plummeting at speeds clocked at 50 mph. At the last moment, just before striking, the osprey extends its long legs and fierce talons, either skimming the water to scoop or plunging hard to grasp its slippery prey. The osprey is equipped with lethal feet, barbed and biting - the inside of each covered with tiny needle-like spicules; and the four long and scaly toes terminating in talons long and dark, curved and sharp. A reversible outer toe that swivels to the rear gives each claw two grasping talons in front and two behind - the perfect tools to clamp a lethal lock onto a slippery fish.
When the osprey hits the water and the grab is made, it’s time to become airborne again. The osprey is light – on average only 3 to 4.5 pounds - and he or she may seize a sizable fish, wriggling, trying to head down and deep to get away. Tremendous strength and exertion are often needed to get up and away with the prize. The oily coating on its wings makes shedding water easier, and the osprey’s powerful wings will arch or kink to form an M, allowing a technique for lifting itself and its captive from immersion.
Once the osprey clears the water, it carries its catch – fish head facing forward - back to its nest or perch. The osprey’s beak is hooked and sharp, appropriately bladelike for slicing or ripping into fish. Usually the osprey will eat the head of the fish first. At the nest, osprey parents will eat and tear the fish into small pieces for their chicks to eat – such feeding will continue until the young are able to hunt and survive on their own.
But the osprey’s hunt for fish is a battle not always won. Sometimes an eagle will play the pirate, bullying or attacking an osprey, forcing it to drop its catch. A clever eagle may even snag the dropped booty in mid-air. An osprey may also release a fish if it is too heavy or aggressive for the osprey to become airborne. Sometimes, an osprey’s talons will hook and get stuck in its victim, and if the fish is strong and heavy, if the osprey becomes fatigued and is unable to release its catch, predator and prey may sink – a fatal encounter for both.
The osprey is joy to watch - its hunter’s instincts and tactics, aerial acrobatics, and ability to plunge into the sea and then elevate with a struggling captive. I have seen an osprey dive into a frenzy of fish and rise out of the melee with a fish in each claw. I wondered how the osprey might feel at such moment - if beneath the fierce look in his golden eye, he might feel a special thrill – the way a golfer does in hitting a hole-in-one or the way a kid might feel standing with an ice cream cone in each hand.
And then... treasure! Or, at least, a relic, in the form of a small but nicely detailed stone point!
From Facebook, as posted on another forum:
"It's that time again! Time to don your pith helmets and fedoras and adventure into the world for a day like you are looking for lost treasure. Dress in your explorer best and have fun!
Talk, act, or dress as you would if you were a classic explorer who is going on an expedition into the unknown, whether it be a safari into darkest Africa, or a visit to temple ruins in South America. Live adventurously on this day!
If you are still unsure about what to do, just think "Talk Like a Pirate Day," but replace "Pirate" with "Adventurer." (Examples: Indiana Jones, Allan Quatermain, Jungle Cruise Skippers, Ramar of the Jungle, Rick O'Connell, Teddy Roosevelt, Nathan Drake, Pitfall harry, Legends of the Hidden Temple, etcetera.)"
I would have added Lara Croft, Jane Goodall, Mary Leakey, and Adèle Blanc-Sec to that list, in the interests of both gender diversity and full-on adventurely awesomeness, but hey, the impetus for the day came from Disney fans, and in my experience, despite their claims to progressivism and diversity, the Disney machine is, above all else, devoted to promoting and maintaining a sanitized and profitable version of the status quo, gender equality be d&mned.
(You think I'm making this up? Look at the film Mary Poppins. What does the suffragette mother do at the end of the movie? She donates her 'Votes for Women' banner to be the tail for a kite. She gives up her cause to go back to being a housewife, and symbolically tells the suffrage movement to 'go fly a kite.')
But I digress. Here, in a series of five images, is my contribution to helping make Lost Adventure Day a more widely recognized pseudo-holiday.
Rollei 6002 50mm zeiss distagon FP4 @ 50asa in rodinal
Lith print originally lithed in easylith 15+15+1000ml , bleached and then relithed 4+2+1000 at 38 degrees. Loved the tones but print patchy not sure whether due to bleaching or 2nd Lith so decided to handcolour to lift contrast and disguise blotches on print. Four colours used (marshall pencils set a) 2 greens, yellow and white on just grass and building to rear. A scan of a print print from 2013 when exploring lith printing in my darkroom. Happy days
Only a selection of images from each photo-shoot are posted here. If you'd like to see additional images from certain models you'll need to subscribe to my Patreon account where I will be publishing content I don't post here. You'll also have the option to make fan requests for more photos, or new photo-shoots, with your favourite models. My subscription rates are very low , staring from only $1/month, so check it out as I could really do with your support. - www.patreon.com/realitydysfunction
Instagram: @realitydysfunction www.instagram.com/realitydysfunction
Edited to B&W with some PS contrast work to highlight the shapes.
We braved some pretty extreme winds to find this rock art today. But it was well worth it, especially as we could hide under the natural rock shelter here.
This is ancient rock art, known as Kettley Crag. I don't know how old the etchings are. Maybe in the region of 4,000 years old.
Note on spelling of Kettley! Most people are spelling it Ketley, but the Ordnance Survey maps and The Modern Antiquarian spell it Kettley, so I'm going with Kettley.
I've put on a note on this picture, bottom left, because that shape looks a lot like a vagina. I've just Googled this and no one else has made a direct link to this online. I know there's a lot of theory that links rock art etchings with sexual images, but I'm guessing no one has had the time or the nerve to flag this up online as yet. I'm just blathering here really because I'm English and don't take easily to writing the word 'vagina' on public forums. I don't know why I posted my message with 'is this a vagina?' I mean, it couldn't be more like a vagina if it tried. The issue, really, is that it's so clear and well carved. It's not some obscure piece of veiled symbolism. It's mimetic, representational, realism!
I don't know much about rock art in landscapes, but I'm doing a Phd on how and why people write. Specifically, my Phd is on discovery writing - a sense that you might find things out by writing. Discovery writing is often seen as opposite to a sense of planning, because planning things out in advance seems to negate learning as you go along. Anyway, I found this nice quote from Picasso, in Ghiselin:
“I put in my pictures everything I like. So much the worse for the things – they have to get along with one another.”
I wonder if the rock artists did that, i.e. did bits because they liked them or liked doing them. That seems pretty natural as a way to make things. Kind of collage. Or maybe it was more coherent than that. Who knows? Not me! But I do like throwing my ten pence worth in there.
I find it fascinating that people were such good artists thousands of years ago. Watching Werner Herzog's film about Chauvet Cave really opened my eyes to how people could create such stunning drawings and etchings. Those images make these Kettley etchings look a bit pathetic. I can imagine my dad etching shapes into cave walls or on rocks in fields. He's old now, and his hands shake, but he used to enjoy carving wood, and could have been a sculptor in another life. As a writer reminded me recently, people are much the same now as they were thousands of years ago. Still, it would be incredible to pop back a few thousand years.., just to see.
This ink drawing is based on a freehand copy of a traditional Tibetan Buddhist black and white "iron-wire" outline. The colors and the leaning posture were added by me.
Vajradhara is usually portrayed with a lithe, graceful body, sitting upright on a lotus petal, with a slight tilt to his head. I chose to exaggerate that tilt to emphasize his harmony with the flow of things as well as his stillness at the center of things.
The name Vajradhara means "holder of the vajra [thunderbolt]," implying that Vajradhara is the holder or protector of Tantrism -- the Tibetan form of Buddhism. Here he holds a vajra in each hand.
There is a sacred mark between his eyebrows, representing wisdom. His neck has three folds, which are derived from the auspicious conch shell blown at Buddhist ceremonies, and which signify the sweetness of his own speech. The five-pronged crown and the numerous jewels adorning his body indicate his pre-eminent status in the Buddhist pantheon of bodhisattvas or dieties.
View a mandala generated from this drawing
Scared Sackboy refuses to get his teeth brushed.
Canon EOS 60D
Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
YN560 shot through umbrella right
My photoblog. Follow me!!
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!
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!
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!
Winner of the high school girls cross country race at the St/ Joseph Streak Invitational in Fremont, OH
A Lithic Petrogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
Lithic Petrogypsids have lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface (UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy). The "lithic" subgroup in Petroogypsids is not currently recognized in Soil Taxonomy.
Petrogypsids are the Gypsids that have a petrogypsic or petrocalcic 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.
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...
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
The following cover appeared in:
True Detective
July 1950
Café Society Murder
The story below probably did not.
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We appreciate the courtesy of Chatwick University Archives for letting us use the journals in our research, and for permission to use parts for the genesis of “Dare’s Game”.
Dare’s Game
Beth, eagerly looking for Dare, walked straight into Seth’s cunning snare…..
Suffix, circa 1910?. It was during this time a fanciful young lady, whom we will call Beth, started a journal which she would faithfully keep over the course of almost 50 years. She led quite an adventuresome life for a lady of that time, and her journals were filled with many tales and observations of her exploits. The following story is derived from events that she penned down in the early years in her journal.
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Beth had known Dare since their childhood. Dare was a handsome free spirited youth only two years her senior, who lived for the games his life had to offer. As his cherished nickname inferred, Dare was always trying to find the thrill out of anything he could think up, relishing to go beyond the pale in anything he attempted. Dare always a little different, harboring feelings and ideas way beyond his years, almost as if he had lived a previous life and retained something from it in his being.
Beth would remember times playing dress up with Dare’s sister Diana in some old gowns of their mothers. It was always then that Dare and his friends seemed to appear and talk them into playing hide n seek, tag or cops n robbers. Dare seemed to take pleasure in cajoling the girls into playing with them in this manner. Eyeing them as they played with a far off look that suggested the game they were playing had more meaning to him than he could ever venture to say. It was hard for Beth to explain it, but she did find it pleasurable (almost erotic using a word whose term she would learn much later) to be observed by him in this way.
One warm fall day Diana and Beth headed down to an old shack located near some railroad tracks at the back of a cornfield. Diana was dressed in a long satin play gown with her mother’s jewelry, which Dare had called rhinestones. Beth, herself dressed in a long flowing dress, loved the way Diana’s jewels twinkled and sparkled as she walked. They were going to pretend the shack was a ballroom and they were one their way to a fancy dance, like Beth’s and Diana’s parents had recently attended. Diana wasn’t supposed to be wearing her mother’s jewelry outside the house, but as a result of Dare’s teasing, had done so anyway.
They had reached the shack, an old white brick building with a wooden roof half fallen in, when a man’s voice suddenly said behind them, what are you two ladies up to? Turning they were confronted by a happily sneering drifter. The grubby man looked around, alone is we, and advanced towards them. The two girls stood petrified, he reached out and probed Diana along her side, pretty dress missy, he said, sparsely toothed mouth grinning like a pumpkin. He suddenly reached up and tore the necklace away from Diana’s throat, sending her falling backwards. Beth screamed bloody murder, as the vagrant turned heel, running off towards the tracks. Suddenly Dare appeared, and Beth, meaning to yell for help, exclaimed instead “help honey” to Dare. Dares eyes took on a very different look, almost of a burning yearning. Beth told him what had happened and he took off down towards the tracks in hot pursuit. For Beth, the look he had given her and the way he had dashed off excited her beyond measure. Even for someone that young, Beth now knew what Dare meant to her. From then on, playing games with Dare took on a heightened meaning for Beth.
But, nothing really changed in their relationship until Beth’s sophomore year of high school. Beth was sixteen at the time, a whimsical being, passionate, innocent, not particularly attractive, but radiating with a love of life. A living free spirit, developing into a very sexual being by the time her and Diana decided to attend their schools prom in their sophomore year. Beth dressed in a fuchsia coloured satin dress with dangling rhinestone earrings that had been” borrowed” from Diana’s Mother, the same ones Diana had been wearing when they had run into the drifter at the shack. Diana slipped into the slinky blue spaghetti strap gown and matching cover-all that she had worn as her cousin’s bridesmaid. She was wearing sapphire costume jewels patterned after the hope diamond. Their parents had given them a hard time when they saw their made up girls in their gowns and finery , admonishing them for looking way too mature. They smiled, consoling their parents fears, and went off on their adventure.
Their eyes were dazzled by the display of lights, the cheerfully student filled room, the band. They had stopped and were letting it all sink in, when Beth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and came face to face with Dare, who once again had the same yearning fire in his eyes as on that fateful day at the old shack. A veil was lifted from between the two, and Beth spent the whole evening encompassed in Dare’s arms. Soon after that the two had begun seeing much more of one another. Their relationship was still going strong eight years later.
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8 Years Later
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Come on Dare, let’s go to the Riverside, it will be fun she urged. She had been trying to get her fiancé’ to take her to the exclusive five star resorts for some time. And now she had a free overnight room card she had won at work! Dare looked into Beth’s wide, hope filled eyes, knowing her passion for attending these types of affairs. Ever hopeful she would see someone rich. Dare knew how to use this to his advantage. Finally he buckled, all right, only if we play the game afterwards he bargained. She squirmed inwardly with passion, nodding her agreement. Beth found the game exciting, though she would never let on to Dare. And, you must wear the gold bridesmaid gown and jewels you wore to your friend’s wedding last week , he added, a wistful smile lighting up his thin face.. Okay she agreed, trying to sound reluctant, but truthfully feeling multiple tingles of delight.
Dare was handsome, in a scrawny, thin bearded, sort of way ( From an old photo that survives he resembled a young Johnny Depp… the eds), with a witty writers imagination and a playful disposition. He could always make Beth laugh, feeling his excitement as he drew her into his stories and games. She would never admit to it, but found the game delightfully erogenous. She smiled to herself, so Dare had liked the satin gown after all, he had not shown any interest in her wearing it since the wedding. And the jewelry, the small rhinestone pendent and earrings had been pretty, but Beth soon came up with another idea. She would knock his socks off by wearing the glittering diamonds and emeralds that had been inherited from her grandmother. The set had laid collecting dust in a safety deposit box all these years, unworn. She had never told Dare about them, waiting for the perfect occasion. She could just imagine the look in his eyes when he saw her wearing them. Okay then, game on, Beth thought, wickedly sending shivers up and down her spine.
Dare’s Game was based on role playing:
Dare would give Beth money to purchase a new outfit, something rich and shiny, like silk or satin. With the new outfit, Beth would wear the good gold jewelry she had received from Dare on her birthdays. The idea was to acting like a bored rich girl out for a good time, alone and vulnerable.
Dare would be at the hotel bar, waiting for Beth to make her entrance, then make her acquaintance , playing a debonair, suited gentleman with a mysterious past and a hidden agenda. They would make a date later, usually to dance and have drinks.
Then that evening, she would go down to the bar. Dressed in one of the long gowns Dare favored, fitting in with the usual spillover from a wedding reception that had been held in one of the Ballrooms. Sometimes she would wear the rhinestone jewelry they had purchased together at various antique stores. Then Beth would wait for Dare to make his entrance, signaling the time for Dare’s game. He would assume one of several roles, or possibly a new one that Beth had never seen. In the past Dare had played:
A spy who would dance with Beth, then disappear. Sending a note to Beth via a third person that would have her meet him clandestinely in a remote location…
A highwayman who would come across Beth on the castle grounds , usually the resorts empty gardens at night….
A rich millionaire looking for romance…
A kidnapper hired by an evil uncle, who after tying up Beth and removing her valuables would have a change of heart….
A Jewel thief who would be cunningly after her valuables…
A handsome prince rescuing Beth’s damsel in distress ….
Or Dare’s favorite, centered on their old childhood game of cops and robbers. Dare would play the thief, and steal something from Beth, usually while dancing. He would then leave preset clues around the grounds that she would have to follow to catch him.
All of the games usually led to some playful groping and then escalating into the upper echelons of erotic pleasure. Sometimes they never made out of the woods, or barely out of the ballroom. Beth shivered at these thoughts, wishing she didn’t have to wait….
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Three weeks later at the Riverside Resort.
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In the Bar:
At the bar, Dare smiled to himself, pleased. He had dropped Beth off to check in by herself. She would change into her new outfit and wear it down to the bar for lunch. She would come in acting like a complete stranger to the area. Dare would make her acquaintance, invite her to lunch, and make plans to see her that evening at the resorts dance room. There were two wedding receptions going on, and that dance room should be filled with well-dressed patrons. Beth would fit right in; clad that pretty gown she had promised to wear.
Dare had been sitting at the bar, thinking about ways to play out the game that evening, when the answer came to him, in the form of a stranger who had come with his drink and sat next to him. The stranger introduced himself as Seth, and shaking Dare’s hand sat on the stool next to him. After they had had couple of drinks, they had become quite chummy. Seth explaining he had come up for one of the weddings, and assumed Dare was doing the same. Seth did not fail to observe Dare’s secretive smile, but did not question it. Their conversation was distracted only when a newcomer appeared at the entrance. Beth walked in, a long flowing silky skirt swishing down to her leather sandals. A shiny, long sleeved satin top fitting tightly along her perky figure, with bright gold jewelry complementing the ensemble. Real gold, Seth observed silently to himself.
Beth went to a table, both men going silent as they watched her move through the room. Good-looking one, that, Seth commented, looking at Dare who was deep in thought as his eyes were fixed on the sexy newcomer. Seth teasingly offered Dare a penny for his thoughts. Dare smiled mischievously, letting lose his plans. Seth listened to the young man, smiling as a light went on in his steal grey eyes. When Dare finished he offered up a suggestion as to how Dare could make it really interesting for Beth. The two co-conspirators worked it out: Seth told Dare about a stone hut and wall that was located on the back nine of the resorts golf course. He suggested that he, Seth, would meet Beth that evening and pass a note onto her from Dare saying that he was in trouble and needed her help, with directions to the spot. Dare liked the idea, and wrote the note on a cocktail napkin, cementing the plan by handing it to Seth.
Off you go old chap, let Uncle Seth take care of his end, he said grinning, giving Dare a sporting clap on the back. With a wink, Dare left his fellow collaborator, and went over to Beth, who had since been seated by a male waiter, now standing drooling over her shoulder as she looked at the menu.
Later that same evening, inside the crowded club:
Seth had stopped by the bar for a last drink. His business venture had been concluded earlier than he had expected. With the change in his plans, he had checked out early, his kit packed, boot loaded and the car ready. He now sat at the bar Causley watching young lass of about seventeen who had literally ran into him at one of the receptions. He watched her flirting about the club, weaving in and out of the guests. With a long swishing gown flowing provocatively along her lithe figure, abundant, solid white gold chains swinging out in an alluringly eye catching manner as she scurried about. A diminutive gold ring its half caret diamond flickered playfully from the petite pinky it loosely surrounded once again welcomed his contemplation. The lass presented quite an intriguing gold feathered fledgling, just begging to be plucked. He looked around, spying her parents on the dance floor. The father/husband, despite being an excellent dancer, gave him no interest. It was his partner, the wife/ mother, decked out in a iridescent suit and long swishing satin skirt upon which he now was reexamining. He again studied under the bright dance floor lights her fine pearls dangling from her ears, throat, and wrists. But it was the Ladies’ two rings that stole the show for him; an engagement ring with a rock of at least 2 carets surrounded by numerous shimmering half caret stones and a pinky ring similar to her daughters, that proudly displayed a single white solitaire diamond of at least one caret that had garnered his consideration. He also reconsidered the facts that he had been able to garnish about the lady who wore them, and her husband. The wife/mother was a heavy drinker who would not be expected to make any kind of appearance before noon. Hubby was a golfer, who would be out for breakfast at five am before being on the links at 6 am the next morning . At 5 :15 Seth was planning to pay a visit to his suite, and relieve his two ladies of their expensive trinkets. It should be an easy straight forward caper, that had Seth bristling with anticipation at the prospect.
As he was tossing down the last of his drink he remembered about Dare and the note he still had in his pocket. Setting down the empty glass, he pulled the note out and looked at it, kids he smirked, and was preparing to crinkle toss it on the bar and leave, when his eyes caught sight of Beth. He had felt his breath taken away when he saw her. Not at all what he had expected, he would say to Beth much later in the evening. He looked over the note, stirrings of a plan began formulating. All thoughts of the dancing couple and his plans fled his mind, as He rose, throwing a fiver on the bar and went off to intercept Beth.
Seth held Beth in his arms, she was a vivacious little thing he thought, while smiling charmingly into her eyes. She seemed a little apprehensive at first, but had settled right in when he had told her this had been set up by Dare, remember me at the bar with him this afternoon he had consoled her, she had smile brightly into his eyes in answer. He relished in the feel of her warm satin gown, and allowed himself to be mesmerized by the shimmer of her diamonds.
It reminded him of the diamonds that had been worn by one of his dance partners earlier that evening at a reception. He had forgotten her name, but not her diamonds, one of which now resided in a hidden compartment of his roadsters boot, along with the diamond pin he had slipped off the satin cape he had cordially help a well-dressed lady put on. He had also shelved his plans for his 5:15 am “meeting” at the golf playing husbands hotel room, Beth’s jewels were a much more lucrative prospect.
When the dance had ended he took her to the bar and sat her down, ordering her a drink. She seemed a little perplexed, Seth kissed her gloved hand; wait for it he told her mysteriously, winking into her eyes. Beth had winked back, the fire in her heart reflecting deep in her eyes. Seth left, smiling cleverly to himself as he took in his surroundings. He looked around as he walked away, now where had the little imp gotten off too?
He had decided that the seventeen year old in the long flirting gown would play a very different role in his plans. He approached her, with Dares note and a twenty. Thought for a moment about the pair of thick platinum gold chains dangling from her throat down the open neckline of the girl’s glossy gown, then banished the though, he had bigger fish to filet. The twenty caught her attention and she eagerly listened as he explained to her what to do, pointing out Beth sitting, waiting in earnest at the bar. Wait until she finishes her drink, Seth told her as she listened eagerly. She took the twenty into her hand, the half caret diamond on her pinky ring flashing, and her gold chain bracelets jangled as she grasped it. Seth left, figuring he had about twenty minutes to stop at his car, get a few items from the boot, and put his plan in motion.
Beth had curiously received the note from the attractively shy young lady, clad a slinky gown that made her appear years older. Reading it she folded it and was just getting up when a man wearing a suit came up to her and offered to let her dance with him. It took her some time, before she was finally able to ward him off and leave the brilliantly lit clubroom for the dark, forbidding grounds outside.
Now, a thoroughly excited Beth walked up the hill. Her senses becoming more prickling alert with each step. Innocently unaware that she was no longer playing a role in Dare’s game!
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Epilogue:
As Seth walked away admiring the shimmery necklace, his thoughts travelled back to the gold burdened impish youngster in the swirling gown, and her pearl and diamond laden mother. Revisiting his original plans he decided that he liked the odds, especially since they would be against him. With the father leaving early to meet his cronies for breakfast the Mother should be still sleeping off her drink induced stupor, the hyperactive girl should still be out cold, but presented no risk if she awoke, he had more rope. The ladies jewels should be lying about in the apartment, or handedly on their persons( the pairs of diamond pinky rings, as well as the multi-diamond engagement ring flashed once again across his memory with all their brilliant glory),as he caught fire with the vision. There could be a safe he reasoned, but with a tied up daughter and a knife in his hand, the mother should have no issue opening it for him, or disclosing anywhere else her jewels may have been hidden . But if there was no safe, and the rings, pearls and solid white gold chains were somewhere in the room, he knew he would be able to noiselessly break in, find and slip the jewels from wherever they were perched, and be safely on his way without even causing the slightest stir from the sleeping woman and her daughter. It was a road Seth had travelled down many times. He prickled at the thought, as he foresightedly tallied up the potential haul while making his way to the car. The Mother/wife’s diamond rings, would easily fetch him at least three grand, probably close five with her pearls and the whelp’s jewelry added in. About a quarter of what he probably would get for the jewels now in his procession, so he mused inquisitively to himself, so ,was it worth the risk of his 20,000 bird in hand? Yes he answered himself, as all too familiar and welcome tingling sensation overwhelmed Seths muscular body. Like Dare, Seth like to play risky games, especially those which promised to be somewhat profitable. It would be a tantalizingly chancy gamble of his own; to wait a safe distance away while things cooled down and then return to break into the un protected sleeping ladies chamber.. He knew just the place to hide , and it would be a perfect spot to watch events unfold around Beth and Dare, while making his plans! It also afforded a nicely secret hiding nook for the ill-gotten gains collected so far that evening in case something went wrong, which it wouldn’t..
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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Your Friendly Neighborhood Task Force
By Lois Lane.
When I woke up yesterday morning, with the birds chirping delightedly and the sun beaming down upon our bustling, thriving city, I expected a number of things to happen in roughly the same order they do every day. I would wake up, have breakfast with my darling Husband and son, grab my double-tall espresso at the CC Jitters down the street from The Daily Planet, and show up three minutes late, which for me, is right on time. What I did not expect yesterday, and what I’m sure many of you, dear readers, did not expect while shopping and working and dining downtown, was that a forty-foot dinosaur, a Tyrannosaurs Rex to be precise, would come barreling down main street, swatting cars with its tail and regrettably, devouring some of the unluckier passer-by. However, this colossal creature did not get far, it was soon felled, not by Superman as one in this fair city would expect, but by a whole-new group of government do-gooders. This crack team of all-American GI’s tranquilized and secured the beast in record time, and will soon return it to it’s island home.
After this chaotic event, I was able to speak with one of these courageous heroes, a woman who introduced herself by the name of Doctor Karin Grace. Doctor Grace, a lithe, cheerful woman, was all too happy to have a chat with me while her compatriots loaded the behemoth into a truck. She introduced them to me as they worked. There was Doctor Hugh Evans, team pretty boy with what I’m told is a very sizable brain, and an adrenaline-junkie attitude to match. Doctor Jess Bright; a physicist and chess-player by nature, Jess is never without a plan in mind. And finally, the leader of this little band, Colonel Richard Flag. Weapons master and a known military man whose honorable deeds run the length of my arm.
“It’s really very simple,” Doctor Grace told me when I asked how they managed to subdue this forty-foot fiend, “it takes fifteen milligrams of Etorphine to knock out an elephant, and your average adult male elephant weighs seven tons. So, Jess figured size that up accordingly to the weight of a T. Rex, and boom, you’ve bagged your prize!” When I asked how much Jess estimated how much sais T. Rex weighed, Doctor Grace laughed and replied, “a healthy number of elephants, Lois!”
Doctor Grace regrettably had to end our little chat there, but before her and her brigade ran off to take Rexy home, I managed to ask what the public should call this squad of dinosaur-wranglers. Doctor Karin Grace was happy to suggest that readers, “Just call them
TASK FORCE X.”
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And it begins. Roll title credits.
Robert Tait McKenzie (1867-1938)
The Competitor
1906; this cast, ca. 1907-8
Bronze
Rogers Fund, 1909
In his sculptures, the Canadian born McKenzie, a practicing physician and the director of the Department of Physical Education at Philadelphia's University of Pennsylvania, portrayed athletes in varying states of motion and rest. A sense of impending action is present in "The Competitor", in which a lithe runner kneels to lace his shoe in a solitary moment before a race.
Only a selection of images from each photo-shoot are posted here. If you'd like to see additional images from certain models you'll need to subscribe to my Patreon account where I will be publishing content I don't post here. You'll also have the option to make fan requests for more photos, or new photo-shoots, with your favourite models. My subscription rates are very low , staring from only $1/month, so check it out as I could really do with your support. - www.patreon.com/realitydysfunction
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Diverse elements of human habitation have been found in the cave, including fire-fractured rock, lithic tools and human remains. Human habitation at Cueva del Milodón is dated as early as 6000 BC. Archeological studies of the area are ongoing.
He was there. He chose to leave. He wanted to change.
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I've always wanted the rail thin model body. I've never had it. By seventh grade, I had "blossomed" into a C/D cup bra. I desperately ached for the body in magazines - tall, lithe, sinewy. The type of body that could wear "boyfriend" jeans and had small pert breasts.
Instead, my body is the antithesis of straight lines. Curves bend around my frame, clasping my flesh. Hourglass.
I am not, perhaps, what society says is ideal.
I'm learning to love myself. To love the swell of my hips, the softness of my stomach.
I'm learning to see myself as feminine. Curvy. Voluptuous. Womanly.
Beautiful in my own way.
Even at this point I would suggest that the Bean is about a meter off the ground, she is an explosive and energetic cat about 2 now and I have to say she is some of the best money I have ever spent. A great addition to our family.
Luca is a really lithe cat with only 2 kg of body weight.
Maybe she knows she is very light...that's why she loves sitting on a weight scale.
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
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...
I am home near Edinburgh having been on a tour of Aberdeenshire taking in Stone Circles and Pictish Symbol Stones along with other lithic monuments and also enjoying the locality in finding whatever happenstance could bring. My memories are criss crossed in heavenly glimmering and my visions are still stellar shimmering. On one memory card there are just five images, from them here are three pictures and each photograph here has been edited to have a second version with the look of a painting. I have been editing these images in an ever darkening and darkened room and I may not like these results tomorrow in daylight. This day has ended and also tomorrow and tomorrow will end too. Some of these day to come might involve finding out where our ancestors chose to make their wondrous places and enduring spaces. Some of the days to come could be recovery and edit days like today where I could have done with more natural illumination, but the Sun waits not and it goes making monumental displays for those fortunate to be enjoying the sun setting rays.
© PHH Sykes 2025
phhsykes@gmail.com
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)