So much for AI. I mean, technically … yes. But … no. I dread to think how AI would construe it if someone texted to say, “Sorry I can’t make it. My sister’s having a mare.”

Schofield’s department store was a Leeds institution from 1901. The incarnation I knew was demolished in 1996 and replaced by what I still think of as “that HORRID new building.” Now I see that’s being demolished in its turn. I shan’t miss it. But where did those 29 years go?

RIP Tony Harrison 😢 We went to the same school in Leeds. He, however, was a genius. His poem “V” upset the usual suspects. His reaction was typically pithy and pointed:

I just put out a bin fire on Oxford St with the help of the guys at a falafel stall who gave me a kettle full of cold water when I asked them and then a second. It had begun to take hold. But now no more bin fire. Hat tip to falafel men.

I went to the recent Van Gogh exhibition at the National Gallery half a dozen times. This is exactly what it was like. Quite dispiriting. Why can’t people just LOOK at the pictures?

The thing on the left is obviously from, and meant for, the US. But I gather that those trans-flag crossings at the junction of Marchmont St and Tavistock Place in Camden WC1 (right) have provoked the indignation of religious objectors. (Ppl in photo are NOT objectors. Two are friends of mine.)

Plainly this is US English. But were Americans using “blasted” in this sense at that period? Dunno. The piece is too unremarkable to bother faking. In this country, the usage took longer to take hold. I remember hearing it on the BBC and thinking they’d let their hair down.

I asked AI to explain this cartoon joke. I knew it would mess up. Predictably it did. Gave me an answer that even a Hebrew 101 student would know was wrong: “The author wrote”! I can see why it did, but also why it shouldn’t. AI not so hot as it pretends to be. Far too confident when wrong.

King David and King Solomon Had merry merry lives With many many concubines And many many wives; But when old age came over them With many many qualms King Solomon wrote the Proverbs And King David wrote the Psalms.

One does like a witty badge. But an illiterate one? Not so much.

So, EDL/Reform types put the George Cross onto bollards and others cleverly turn them into Battenberg cakes.

I read this as “Demosthenes.” At least that would make some kind of sense.

I dropped into Tesco. I noted that they are doing all in their power to see that Christmas not sneak up on us unannounced.

The things that one is apt to see While strolling next the River Lea

I do like these old(ish) London Borough of Camden street signs. If it was older, it would just say WC without the digit.

This from a baby-changing installation in a loo in polyglot Bloomsbury. nullam incomitata puer Seriously? Either this is not Latin or else someone whose Latin is better than mine will be along to parse it for me.

I had not before today clocked that Al-Saqi had closed their lovely bookshop in West London. Along with the grievous loss of Al-Hoda from Charing X Rd about 10 years ago, this really puts the tin lid on the loss of secular Arabic book selling in London. themarkaz.org/end-of-an-er...

Out for a walk on Hampstead Heath. Lots of lovely dogs. I have a mental image of the meeting. One asks: “Do we ALL have to be wearing neckerchiefs?”

Not quite a Waterloo sunset. But pretty impressive all the same. Salmon Lane E14. Taken on my walk yesterday.

Captain Striker: You are a Time Lord. Can there be lords in so small a domain? The Doctor: In which domain do you operate? Captain Striker: Eternity. The endless wastes of eternity.

If you’re a certain age, you see this car and you think, “Bet Lynch!”

Just received this tiresome piece of spam. It’s a new one on me. At all events, beginning with “Dad” was never going to get my attention. I really am sure that I have no children.

Had I not been so much in need of the loo, I should never have stopped at that filthy East End dive masquerading as a pub. A band was practising - as in practising iniquity. Loudly. Ear-splittingly. Made thrash metal sound like Vivaldi. If Hell has a soundtrack, I have had a foretaste of it.

Along with the antibiotics, the writer might want to think about getting a dictionary.

One imagines Watson and Holmes out for a walk. They come upon this singular assemblage of objects. Watson thinks it random. Holmes sees at once that it was left there by a former builder-turned-arsonist whose tastes have now turned to fags and junk food.

God bless the National Trust. At Berrington Hall they have a rather good dressing-up box. 1/

A man named Pentecost is found high and “babbling” in a small upper room. Is this not as clear an instance of nominative determinism as we’re ever likely to find? www.bbc.co.uk/news/article...

Here’s something I just put on Facebook. It’s not just hiring that’s like this. Dealing with garages is rather similar. It’s almost always blokey blokes with a tough manner that is meant to make you feel on the wrong foot. Do they practise in front of a mirror?

A peculiar pairing. Much Wenlock, Shropshire.

I took a nice long walk this afternoon along Wenlock Edge. Naturally I paused to recite Poem XXXI from A Shropshire Lad. The wood was not in trouble. The Wrekin was not heaving his forest fleece. But the tree of man was still unquiet.

Note to self: Hay-on-Wye? Vaut pas le détour. Go to Wigtown in Scotland instead. Far better shops. Much less pretentious. There’s a definite “crystal” vibe in Hay-on-Wye …

I gather today is International Left-Handers’ day. I had missed this. I got stick at school for being left-handed. My mother, not otherwise known for being a champion of difference, waded in and told them to cut it out. Kudos to her for that. Joy to fellow left-handers.

The outer wall of the Round Chapel at Ludlow Castle. One thing that happens here is that people get married. This pigeon has a view. “Nice outfit. Shame if anythin’ was to ’appen to it. Yeah, of course I take contactless.”

There is a cafe near us called Mandala. Run by Buddhists. Pet philological peeve du jour: the pronunciation mænˈdaːlə with middle vowel like “aaaah”. There are no long vowels here. And the accent is on the first syllable. [So: ˈmɐɳɖɐlɐ] Thank you for your attention.

Fortunately (I think) my visit to this lavatory did not involve meeting any bandits and so I did not need to activate the bandit alarm. Still, I daresay it could be handy if bandits were suddenly to materialize. One thinks of the unfortunate Mr Samgrass.

Is this the zoo that had an unwanted giraffe called Marius? They gave him a bowl of food, waited for him to bend down, and shot him in the head. And filmed it. Then the vet did a public autopsy as a kind of spectacle. Dressed up, of course, as “people need to know how life is”. Such do they make it.

I came across this today. God, I wish I hadn’t. It belongs, appropriately enough, to a genre apparently known as brainrot. The description seems entirely apt. youtu.be/TZAdoZy6y34?...

If you are the praying kind, please pray for a friend of mine undergoing serious surgery tomorrow morning. (No names, no pack drill.)

I am seated alone in a restaurant between two other tables. To my left are two people talking. I can’t hear their talk. To my right four people, of whom one is American. EVERYONE can hear him. No stereotypes, but he is not the only one of his countrymen with, er, volume issues.

Once more, dear friends, I find myself on board a train with only standard class accommodation. Some time ago, standard became a euphemism for “meh”. (Just as regular apparently means “small” in the world of coffee.)

Elated I got to The White Bear Theatre in Kennington to see Mark Farrelly performing his fantastic “Jarman” about the sainted Derek. His performance was off-the-scale wonderful: his verbal wit, his physical energy, his verve for art and life. I thought of these lines that Jarman used in Blue:

Who remembers Harry Worth? He died OTD in 1989. I used to love the beginning of his show when he would do this thing with the shop window.

There was a young fellow named Perkins Who was mightily fond of his gherkins One day for tea He ate forty-three And pickled his internal workin’s.

I think I could divine that this means “Your head is at risk.” But what, precisely, is the peril? It looks like some kind of machine tool is going to saw the top off your skull.

I still get a rush of childlike glee when a package arrives from a bookseller abroad. This one must be round your way, @olawikander.bsky.social Alas the modern tendency to frank everything means that pretty clusters of stamps are mostly a thing of the past.