The film has arrived and demands in vivid, Kodak fervour that I raise it toward its intended purpose. I have batteries and I have their vessel. In fact, naught stands betwixt this hallowed machinery and a very specific destiny. Give me light and tape shall run.
From what I understand, it is no uncommon thing for people to feel like they were born a little late. This is not merely a tail-end Millennial thing either. I mean, it absolutely is that but it is also a malaise capable of afflicting people at various points along their respective tortured timelines. For my own part, I feel like a twenty-thirty year offset would have been nice, depending on what day of the week you ask me. In this way, I could have been in with a chance of actually being the right age to shoot this stuff before it expired. That being said, today is Thursday and I would be equally happy with a jump forward a couple of hundred years, where I would still be shooting film and that most archaic kind of knowledge might make of me an even more specialised interactive museum exhibit. Tickets shall be 18,000 Lira, which in 2218 might be a lot of money?
I have no recollection as to where exactly I picked this up. To all intents and purposes, it emerged from the rich mulch that carpets the floor of my sleeping room. It is also entirely possible that it has no author and simply willed itself into existence, which would be perfectly fitting for something that is in parts comic noir, Pulp Fiction, British punk and Lovecraftian horror.
However, that would absolutely be doing a disservice to Shelly Bond & Co who frequent the Black Crown with such unabashed confidence. They traverse from one part of this realm to another in the blink of a blackened eye - seemingly with zero fucks - and I sense the most powerful undertow drawing me into teh Googleth in order to track source and progeny. It has echoes of both Bradley's and Trisha's. Big time. Dissemination is oft the anathema of these things but here, I suspect there are many, many rooms beneath this semi-mythical pub and I fear that I shall find only what I take with me.
The Tectonic Queen has flown. Before doing so, she and I did visit the walled garden known as Kew. We had tried to do so one occasion prior but were foiled by the weather. I say it was the weather’s fault but in reality, it was more likely down to our own tardy timetable. Who can say.
There was a weekend last summer that we immersed ourselves in no fewer than four of the most wondrous gardens made available to us. This was not that weekend but it did offer us the opportunity to maunder betwixt a world of biomes in a single afternoon. One can take themselves at leisure from comparatively ancient bluebell woodland, via cedar forest to what looks very much like feudal Japan, complete with a kinda impressive pagoda. Lunch at The Botanical was a perfect accompaniment to a pretty singular view of Richard Turner’s Victorian Palm House; that’s some serious engineering right there and equally impressive climate control.
For the most part, we let ourselves go off the map but you should absolutely take in the canopy view from their elevated platform, provided you are neither afraid of heights and/or a cat. There may have been cider involved and this is not to be advised. It would also be remiss of me not to mention the more English country garden aspect of the northern realm. I often think the word idyllic gets thrown about with abandon but I’m failing to come up with a better word.
We like bees, particularly those that bumble and we were well provided for.
JD - TACOCAT