No Smoking

Met up with Rowen today to wander round the Wallace Collection, room after room of ornate gold clocks, strangely-formed armour (horse-armour with eyeholes and ear-protectors) rococo paintings (lots with dead hares with one leg in the air-symbolic of something highly peculiar!), cabinets full of little portraits that made both of us feel uneasy (it looked as though some of the young girls had been coerced into posing), Napoleon, Napoleon everywhere. I told her how delighted Little Bruv McCallum was to discover an American baseball star, Napoleon McCallum, as he is a big fan of the teensy Emperor.
On the way there, I was intrigued by a tube station called No Smoking, until I realised I was reading the sign inside the carriage and not the one on the station wall opposite. That says it all about this week really; it's been a little disjointed.
I waded through almost forty essays yesterday morning, despairing, despairing, until I came to the one that happily told me all about 'the full rectum of possibilities'. This confusion of the word spectrum and the back passage made me laugh out loud and saved the day.
Luckily, I'm off to Inverness tomorrow to put a vocal on Glasgow Train, the last track of the album I've been distance-recording and writing with Martin Stephenson for the last year.
Then it will be time to pursue the elusive Chefs album, I think!