We finally bought something decadent from Liberty's as per wedding instructions from smallbeasts. Not this £80 t-shirt, though; a deliciously steampunk lamp and that bright red cog-shaped modernist fruit bowl we saw in Prague but would never have got home in one piece.
We also went to see Anish Kapoor at the RA, and ever since I've had this story unfolding in my head called "Anish Kapoor's Cannon Club" which alas really must not be written ever. I tried to photograph the spiders living in his 3-printed turdnests, but I was prevented. I wonder what they eat. Tiny modern art flies? Oh, and the Turner Prize:
And the Turbine Hall. And Michael Clarke Company doing Bowie/Reed/Pop, about which I will not spoil, as it's on for another week and I'm fairly sure that others have yet to go. Two days of cold cures, well, a week of cold cures, really. When will I get better? Not yet. Here's the last of Owltober:
Fans of Harlequin might like to know that she caught Teasel's eye infection, and is now being bundled up in one of my more reassuring hoodies and having her eye gooped twice a day, while mewing pathetically. Or not. She's also started purring when things near her are stroked, which presumably represents some sort of philosophical crisis.
Also, good news on the house front! We took up a floorboard in the damp corner, and it wasn't a fetid space, writhing with slugs. It was dry, dusty, and empty save for a single ancient split pencil. Great! But also puzzling.