Happy goths

My interview with Dave McKean is now live, to accompany my review of Mirrormask.

Enjoyed Nimbos blogging our trip to the goth wossname at Tate Britain last week (well done with the title there, fella).

The Dr particularly like Fuseli's "Brunhild Watching Gunther Suspended from The Ceiling on their Wedding Night" (1807), in which some German bird ties up her new husband so that she can sleep unmolested. Bit bothered that this one's her favourite.

In fact, a lot of the stuff is about immasculated blokes, conquered by women or nature. I dared suggest this was showing the awfulness ensuing when the proper order of things is undone.

Definitions of goth are about as myriad, and useless, as definitions of science fiction. But it struck me, gawping at the pictures and the other vamps who'd come to see them, that the late eighteenth century was also the time of enlightenment, of experiment and proveable fact. Fact which, in building a scientific model for the world around us, underminded folk tales and myth.

So, I'd venture, gothicism is a conscious denial of the rational in favour of "dressing up" in the superstitious and strange. It's playing with monsters and nightmares when we know better; in the best possible terms, it's an affectation.

Yes, other defintions of goth are available, and I'm sure people will write in.

Whatever the case, goth is never the most subtle of art-forms, and the drawings on offer here are full of struggling and straining women whose clothes have fallen off, and naked, beef-cakey chaps with small winkies.

"And some quite big ones," said my friend C. as we headed to the pub down the road. Poor girl.

The pub was fun too, with a quiet upstairs done out in slightly tatty victoriana - which was just the Dr's thing. I chatted with a mate of S.'s about how writing and fighting are the same. No, really: there are those who just talk about it, and those who just get on with doing it. And it's most effective to keep your moves simple and to the point.

You can’t teach physics to a dog

“Einstein refused to accept quantum mechanics fully. And even Niels Bohr, one of the central pioneers of quantum theory, and one of it’s strongest proponents, once remarked that if you do not get dizzy sometimes when you think about quantum mechanics, then you have not really understood it.”

Brian Greene, The elegant universe – superstrings, hidden dimensions and the quest for the ultimate theory, p. 88.

It took a little over a fortnight, but I’ve finally finished the book on string theory which Nimbos got me for Christmas.

The book is about how clever people have spent the last 100 years trying to tie together two mutually exclusive ideas – one about how gravity works, the other about how light comes in lumps.

I’ve always been a bit of a plodder in understanding clever stuff, especially in the “real” subjects where you can’t just make it up. For the last two thirds of the book I was mostly just reading the individuals words and hoping that somehow my subconscious would put it all together later.

(Which is more or less my technique with Dombey & Son in my teens. And it worked.)

Greene admits himself that things get pretty weird and he’s often advising the layman to skip ahead (which I didn’t as I’m tough). Physics at the smaller-than-the-atom stage is counter-intuitive to an ape brain that sees in three dimensions, (a sense developed, I guess, from falling out of trees).

There seems, to me at least, an element of creative accountancy involved in string theory – that is, moving numbers around the page until the story adds up. That may just be my missing the sums, though (which I’d not have a hope of intuiting). The mathematics involved gets so complex – Greene says – that a lot of the weird stuff has to be taken on trust.

Hauling my eyes over speak of pan-dimensional Calabi-Yau shapes and the different kinds of oddly named quark (up, down, hot, carrot and Basingstoke), I felt the same “well, okay” response to the minutiae of theology. I broadly, for example, understand the difference between homoousios and homoiousio (and did before it was in Dr Who, and all) but not why it matters to anyone whether Jesus is exactly or pretty much like his dad.

But strings, Greene insists, aren’t philosophy. It’s all very well saying there’s this very, very small stringy bits that waggles in seven dimensions we can’t sense. The clever bit is working out how to test the theory, to prove that they really are there. Which is what Top Men like my mate Dr Kelly are struggling to fathom out now.

Am now working through Greene’s attention-deficit TV show version of the book, which Psychonomy kindly leant. “They can smell reality!” declares one of the talking-head boffins.

Yet for all I’ve rolled my eyes at the lame jokes and set-ups – or is that an epileptic response to the flashy graphics? – I can still nod my way through it comprehendingly. Yeah, a bit to my amazement, I get it.

So, in fact, no I don’t. QED.

Lazy boy

Many things to speak of, which I don't have time for right now. Some writing things happening, and work all very busy. Some films and an exhibition seen. Some indulgences had. A I've finally finished a book that was making my eyes bleed.

Will endeavour to catch up in the week. In the meantime, here is what my wee brother is working on. Will remind you to check back on the 12th, but tell your friends.

www.crocjohn.com

Bad grammar

After getting it howlingly wrong yesterday – thanks to everyone who posted – I’ve read up a bit on the Tripartite system.

Blimey. Had assumed that ‘76, in banning selection on grounds of ability, saw the end of the grammar school system, and what remained were entrance exams for particular, snobby schools (like mine).

Turns out it’s all a lot more complex than that, depending on where you live. And it’s got more complex as time has gone on.

“Estelle Morris has left us with independent schools, over 160 grammar schools, church and faith schools, specialist schools, advanced specialist schools, beacon schools, city academies, city technology colleges, ‘fresh start’ schools, ‘contract’ schools – in addition to ‘ordinary’ comprehensives and secondary moderns. No wonder many parents are confused!”

Clyde Chitty, “The right to a comprehensive education”, Second Caroline Benn memorial lecture, 16 November 2002.

Chitty’s lecture is really interesting; an honest assessment of the pros and cons of the comprehensive system. Wikipedia also links to Michael Portillo’s counter-argument, in favour of grammar schools’ elitism.

Admissions policy is, of course, a major part of the newly unveiled Education Bill. "There will be no return to the 11-plus,’ said the White Paper. Oh yes?

I’ve muttered before that foundation schools seem very able to keep out the wrong sorts. Admissions policies suit the schools rather than the pupils. Imagine if, for example, hospitals decided only to treat the “right sort” of sickness, rather than the immediate needs of the surrounding community.

Oh, hang on, that’s what they’re doing.

My brother was at St Mary's

Not sure what the press embargo stuff is on V for Vendetta, and don't want to steal the thunder of Boss Joe's forthcoming review on Film Focus, but that was not nearly as bad as it might have been.

As a general rule, any time they stray from the comic the logic starts to unravel. Yeah, the effort to update it, to make it about political shit now, kind of works - and they get some good gags out of it. But John Hurt being a Tory is 10 years out of date, and wish they'd asked if we still do the 11+, or checked a map to see where the tube runs. Natalie's accent wobbles a bit, bless her, and they'd lost some of my favourite stuff.

Of course, I'm hugely protective of the comic 'cos it really blew my head off as a kid. A friend at school - St Mary's, as it happens - leant me the DC run. Wrote GCSE and MA coursework about it, trying to understand why. Will look out the latter as a bonus-post here sometime.

But basically, it works. It's the first good adaptation of an Alan Moore comic, which is something of a feat in itself. (Though he's foregone a credit, so its oddly described as "Based on the comic illustrated by David Lloyd".) The Dr, who won points the first time I met her for saying she too loved the comic, was also very pleased.

Odd to watch work exploding, too. Right, back to the Terroism Bill.

"The slightly less funny version..."

Just off the phone to Dave McKean, interviewing him for Film Focus. My review of Mirrormask is now up, and there’ll be a transcript of our chat shortly (am about halfway through typing).

It’s odd getting to speak to your heroes. I remember discussing McKean’s work in “The Face” (a hip style magazine) with my sister, back when we both lived at home. Didn’t know who had done these weird, scary images – or how you could even do that with photos – but his were the ones I stuck into my notebooks.

Always been in awe of people who can draw well and make things. Spend most of my time these days working on Word documents, which don’t ever look much when I hand them in. Clever people transform the words I come up with into lavish magazine spreads, proper-looking books, or bring them alive on CD.

Of course it’s the design we see first, then the words. But the design doesn’t just draw our eye, it shapes our reading as well.

McKean’s stuff is certainly striking. Liadnan bought Varjak Paw for my birthday some years ago just on the strength of the cover, and I suspect a lot of Sandman got shifted on the same principle. That’s how I first read it, anyway.

And he seems, in the 28 minutes and 10 seconds that I spoke to him, a decent enough sort of fellow.

My review of Kidulthood is also now available. And I like this story, via a chum, about a shotgun wedding for a goat.

Now hurrying off to see V.

Sixth weekday

Today I wrote a review, chased some things and sent notes on three scripts. One more set of “No, do this!” to go for the year. Hopefully Monday.

Still hoping to speak to Someone about Something that day, but no details have yet been sent. Fingers crossed, but now have an exciting booking at 6 which may scupper everything. Will speak more of both the Someone and the booking when I can.

My dad rang to discuss a trip over to France in June, though explaining how we’ll have to make our own way home because his car will be full of booze. “Wanted to fix this before you both got booked up,” he said as we compared diaries. “Oh, actually you’re mother and I are quite busy that month…”

The wee brother flies to Australia on Monday to begin his shoot. There’s a website but am unsure whether I’m meant to link to it yet. Just rang to see, and he’s having a last tea with his mrs. Will endeavour to get my instructions some time tomorrow.

Also washed up, done the cat poo, and generally moved some things around the house. Cat has already claimed the rocking chair which the in-laws dropped round yesterday. The rocking bit took some getting used to, though. I think he shifts about all the time just to check it keeps happening.

The Dr is in Birmingham at one of her clever things, so am about to make my own tea. The last time this happened (on Monday) I ate four chicken breasts in one go. Num. Wonder what there is left I shouldn't touch...

Bright helm

Spent much of the day in Brighton today, discussing and agreeing the Great Plan. Announcments of things in due course, of course, but it's all a bit exciting in my mind.

Brighton was freezing bloody cold - and my idea of strolling up a bit of the beach seemed somewhat less genius after quarter of an hour. Still, the sun was out and the goth ruin of a pier seemed all the more eerie and cool. In fact, with the wintry sun flattening everything bleakly, the skeletal structure seemed to float above the sea.

Or perhaps that's just frostbite of the brain.

Back home in the afternoon to buy meat and admire our new chair. Then some phonecalls and chasing of work stuff. Have two Very Exciting Things as work on Monday, of which more as and when.

And now off to eat tea and watch Mirrormask.

Links effect

Sometimes it is more fun just to link to other people’s nice things. Cannot be fagged with my own thoughts.

• Rob has a blog again (and also does Droo tours of Swansea); this old post made be snicker
• Geofftech has reclaimed Beck’s tube map for the South
• The LRB’s concise explanation of MRSA is online, and suddenly things all make sense
• Everyone’s already heard Tom, but it is spiffing and this is for the historical record anyway

I think I'm buff

Yesterday's post needn't have worried. Last night's movie got cancelled (or misplaced) and tonights was rilly, rilly good. Alarming and awful in subject, but brilliant and funny as well.

Proper review of Kidulthood to follow shortly, but I won't be chucking Noel Clarke...

Yeah well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man

Matt Michael seems chuffed with the History of Christmas in the shiny new DWM. He’s impressed that there are “no stinkers” - which I’m very pleased about – and singles out some for high praise. So hooray!

Off to the pictures tonight and tomorrow, to declare them hit, miss or maybe. Reviews to follow on Film Focus sometime.

Chatted with a colleague only last week about being both a judge and defendant. It changes your perspective slating some trashy film when you can be / have been similarly bashed. Or, at least, it ought to.

No one has to like what you do, and reviewers aren’t required to engage with what you’ve done or explain their marks out of ten. Responding to critics, and explaining what you meant, is really quite rubbish.

You’re not owed anything, let alone love.

Many friends simply avoid reading reviews of their efforts, and are probably much happier that way.

But what do you do when you don’t like something a friend’s written? Do you back out of reviewing it, or use a pseudonym, or try a kindly critique of why it fails to excite?

The latter is a bit like splitting up with someone. Saying, “It’s not you, it’s me…” doesn’t actually lessen the blow. It’s more about assuaging your own guilt. Nor does it help forewarning your target, nor offering to buy them pints.

No, if you’re giving someone a bad review (or chucking them), you have to accept you’re the villain. If you really have to be the villain, just get on with it. Be honest, be clear, be concise. Be as nice about it as you can be.

But it’s not your call whether you’re still best mates afterwards.

Zoonoses

Learnt this splendid word today for work-type reasons, and am annoyed not to have spotted it in the increasingly squawky coverage of bird flu. Perhaps I’m not reading the hysteria with due diligence.

Playing with the BBC’s flu spreader wossname, it looks like, you know, not that bad. Your normal flu drops people far more readily.

(Entirely crass, of course, to try some lame gag about the difference between bird and bloke flu, and how they exhibit almost entirely the same symptoms, but you can still struggle into work if it’s bird flu. No, I shall not stoop to such depths.)

Zoonoses is the proper name for diseases we can catch off animals – rabies, BSE, and cheery things like that.

WHO says (more or less) that it’s newly found-out-about zoonoses that gets the mob worked up, while ones we already know about are simply not as cool. Even in sickness there’s fashion.

Sadly, it’s not “zoo noses” like what orang-utans sniff with. Being a technical word, it’s got the same, double-syllable “zoo” as “zoology”, rather than rhyming with “goo”. And the -ses is pronounced “seize” – that is, the same long plural of an –sis ending you get in “analyses” and “crises”.

Oh well. It still looks good on the page and screen.

Also for work-type reasons (therefore being paid for the privilege) I have discussed such a thing as an oocyst of cryptosporidium. It’s like black-ops, radar-invisible transport for top-secret spores (the cryptosporidium) to get about in.

Grown up stuff

Window people turned up at half seven yesterday, which was a bit of a shock after a night on the tiles seeing A. off. The Dr scooted into the shower and then into work, and I spent the day making tea and keeping the cat from escaping.

Blimey, I'd recommend Crystal to anyone thinking mature thoughts about double-glazing. Quick and efficient, the whole job done even before the football was over.

(Look, it wasn't like that. Me and the cat were shut up in the living room, which was the one they'd windowed first. And I was tidying up with the telly on. No, really. But goaaaaal!)

Once they'd gone, I did some more tidying (and txtd some Scouser chums). There is dust just everywhere, and no sooner have you dysoned than it's there again.

But the place is suddenly so weirdly quiet - we can now barely hear the trains, cars and youths passing the house. And the cat approves of the window sills.

Then, shagged out, I nestled down with the cat to watch some Quatermass. Report on that sometime else.

Also came up with some pitch ideas, and worked on something that's not going to be easy at all to make happen. Ng.

The Dr rolled in from work and we did some tidying, dusting and unblocked the drain. She also had news that C. is up the duff. Wahey! We were then off to see chums in Greenwich, where much booze and good stew got ate. And I got to play with the baby.

Late up today, but we've got more tidying to do, and a clever bloke coming with a drill to sort out curtain rails. Ah, domestic bliss.

Today just happens to be the sixth anniversary of a party in Catford where I stumbled up drunkenly to the not-then-a-Doctor and said I thought her fantastic. We tend do things today rather than Valentine's day, but this year got caught up with windows. So, just to really annoy her: you're still fantastic, dear.

The picture is by Nimbos, taken on Friday night on our way back from a caff that sold wine (hooray!). The eminent academic and seriously minded sage is cooing over this. 

300 and 9

Do this morning was rather sweet, though the grooms were both wearing sweaters.

Nipped off afterward to a gig near Waterloo, and this afternoon I’ve learnt something. They’ve changed how you calculate UCAS points.

In 1994 I had 24 points (and got seven rejections on one day). According to this helpful calculator, my stock’s now at 300.

A rise of merely 1250% in 12 years. I should have invested.

Also, got sent this list which is as baffling as it is brilliant. The boss says he’ll check to see if it’s in any way not Damn, Damn Lies. But blimey.

(Historical note, in case the page is updated or I happen to wake up: Gardner’s top 10 bestsellers this month has Time Travellers at number 9. I’m fast catching up Dan Brown, Penny Vincenzi and a book of Scrabble challenges. And I beat that Cartmel fellow, too.)

Will we both wear white?

It's all been a bit last minute, but tomorrow I attend my first civil partnership. The girls in the office are flapping about what to wear. M'colleague A. and I have just manfully discussed the delicate subject of jackets.

Keen to see how the order of service will go, because civil partnerships are emphatically not to be seen as gay marriages. Though, er, that is what they are, isn't it?

So, will we be allowed readings, confetti and things? And will there be bubbly drinks? I can't wait.

Since it's a civil do, you can't make mention of God - not even to acknowledge his poor, breaking heart. Having opted for a secular wedding ourselves, the Dr and I weren't allowed any of the God stuff (despite the best efforts of our mothers). Which meant we missed out on some of the madder bits of the Book of Common Prayer.

Looking up the reference to such joyous, puritanical roaring, was entertained to see it begins:

"[Matrimony] is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men..."

The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony, The Book of Common Prayer (1662).

That sounds worrying like official sanction for the hitching of chaps who can't catch. Don't try protesting that the use of "men" isn't gender specific and means "all mankind". That's balls; especially since the thing's then so keen to point out the fundamental differences between men ("love her, comfort her...") and women ("obey him, service him..."). If it meant "men and women", it could say "men and women".

Anyway, the bit I'd have quite happily wed to comes next:

"...and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding..."

ibid.

That's right, marriage is for shackling down the rutting beast within. Down boy!

"It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body."

ibid.

Now I realise that "continency" is referring to being able to contain one's urges, rather than being incontinent. But I love even the wilful misreading that the church wants us married to stop us pooing ourselves.

They invented gayness

After a morning rushing about getting keys cut and important bits of paper signed, I ambled my way to Ladbroke Grove for reasons which will be made clear in time. Met some chums, and some talented people I'd not met before. Discussed the joys of real swearing, the problems of when there's too many people, and the various ploys of my Great Plan.

Also nattered to Scottie about Simon Goldhill's Love, Sex and Tragedy - Why Classics Matters, which I finished last week. The Dr bought it ages ago as part of her ongoing efforts to civilise me. It's excellent, divided into sections that cover our attitudes to sex, Christianity, politics, culture and history, and detailing the debt each of these owes to the Greeks and Romans of old.

There's some fascinating top facts. It was the Victorians who invented homosexuality, for instance. At least, they came up with the term. The development of the early church is also seen as a reaction to Roman religion, which in some cases is just boggling.

The stuff on politics was also very interesting.

"The Athenian citizen was expected to attend the Assembly, to serve on the Council at some point, to act as a juror on occasion, to vote, to do the business of the deme, to take part in festivals and to fight in the state's army or navy. Modern democracies talk obsessively about rights. Ancient democracy thought of citizenship more as an issue of duties and activities."

Simon Goldhill, Love, Sex and Tragedy - Why Classics Matters, pp. 179-180.

No armchair anarchists in Anthens, then. You had to get your hands dirty.

The Dr tells me that the Guardian review of the book, though generally very impressed, felt the book could have covered imperialism. It also lacks any great detail on scientific enquiry and the enlightenment's debt to classics.

Also, Goldhill's argument falls into two kinds. The first - that our attitudes to sex, religion, politics etc. cannot be understood without knowledge of their Greek and Roman origins - is strongly articulated and, in some cases, amazing. But Goldhill, when he can't give evidence of such direct inheritance, also argues that the "different-ness" of the ancient world is therefore a model by which we can scrutinise our own society.

This, I feel, is less effective an argument, because surely any "different" culture would work just as well as a mirror. A study of the Navaho, or the court of Kublai Khan, would likewise challenge our social assumptions by not taking them for granted.

Home

Found my way to the War Tunnels yesterday, which were pretty amazing. Slave-built by the Nazis, the place was meant to be a hospital. Now it's an eerie memorial to the occupation. You get an identity card as an entrance ticket, and afterwards get to check whether your card is that of a restistance martyr or collaborator. Mine was a collobarator.

Then to the airport, where I fended calls from estate agents and brothers. Took an age to get home from City Airport, and the Dr seemed pleased with her toys. We nattered into the small hours. And this morning I have poetry.

Off for a day's running about across London sorting things out, now. To right is a picture of the offending bear.
 

We're the dirty rascals

Cocking bloody castle is not open until 2 April. Pootled across the slippy, skinny causeway anyway, and then rather mournfully picked over some rocks and glowered at the high walls in our way.

Got a glimpse of the exciting 16th century bailey and fortifications when a car drove up and went through the gates - probably a warden or somesuch. Then the doors slammed shut and we were bereft.

Place only fell to starvation I'm told, and is full of different keeps and baileys, and the German-built towers are much further off than they look. Dammit dammit dammit.

It is a cold, grey Sunday afternoon and the fims on offer in the cinema failed to excite. Tourist office not open on Sundays either, so we've stopped off for a coffee in another netted caff to check when the war tunnels are open. Likely to do that tomorrow though, as we have an engagement at five.

Stayed in the trendy bar last night and had nice food and red booze. Then ambled back to Liadnan's and watched 12 Monkeys, which I'd not seen in yonks. Bit depressing that it's ten years old now, and 1996 does seem an age ago. Brad Pitt's performance remains as riveting and brilliant as ever, and I think this must have been the first time Bruce Willis died in a movie. It's easily the best thing he's done.

Does it look like a monkey?

I carve these runes from inside an trendy pub on the St Helier waterfront, while Liadnan and I sip Chianti. Also, you get about a third off the price of DVDs here as compared to London. Truly this is a heaven.

On the piss with legal beagles last night, and Thai hot food I could still taste when I woke up this morning. Nice. We made a heroic trip to the shops (had to stop for a coffee though), and I have picked up a Jersey Evening Post starring my boss Joe's first column as Film Guru Dude.

Thence to the zoo, which was a bit top actually. Even included talks on the gorillas and the orang-utans. The males in each case are shagging like rabbits, which is a Good Thing. We had a happy time watching the gorillaz sunbathe and eat sprouts.

Also saw some pyschedelic frogs. The vivid yellow ones are the most poisonous thing ever, apparently, and the freaky blue ones were shagging as we passed.

The wolves were not anywhere to be seen, but we did go into a darkened room (to be like Madagascar time) and spied the Aye-aye, high up in the top corner of the den. He did a bit of stretching and staring back. And they have freakishly skinny fingers. (Yes, pots and kettles.)

Sent the Dr a mobile-photograph of one of the bears, which reminded me of our dimness of cat. Was rung up on the bus back into town and told off for sending monkey pics. My wife is a city girl, and can just about tell the difference between horses and cows. I shall post the offending pic when I am back at home and Picasad, so you can judge for yourselves.

Mmmm, wine. Off back to Liadnan's for local pub grub and - like as not - some ranting about the state of the world / legal system / books with spaceships and robots in them. And tomorrow (hooray!) an CASTLE!

"It is a good castle," says the not-quite-reading-over-my-shoulder-as-we-are-sat-opposite-each-other Liadnan. Woo and woopee! Oh, and happy birthday Charles Darwin if I have that right.

Jersey, part one

Apologies to those who've been mailing me off-blog. Am currently in an Internet caff in St Helier, and it's probably costing me limbs. I have replied to the must-reply-to stuff, but read the rest. Proper replies next week, if you're lucky.

(Apologies also if this post is all over the place. Trying to remember how Macs work, too.)

Cab picked me up this morning at six to get me to City Airport. Surprised how busy the roads were - and there was a nasty queue into the Blackwall Tunnel that threatened to spoil my weekend for a bit. But it all turned out groovy, the flight was fine and I arrived in a sunny-but-not-hot Jersey at just gone ten.

The taxi driver proudly pointed out the famous cows and the changes to the waterfront in the last 12 years as we made our way into town. More impressed by the space-age dome on the top of the hill overlooking St Helier - they've roofed Fort Regent and turned it into a sports centre, it turns out. Bit like any other sports centre, but the steep steps up the rockface are worth it for the view.

Met Liadnan, who gave me a quick walk round the block as a smoke-break before returning to work. He showed me the square where the best bits of the 1781 Battle of Jersey was fought, and the famous "V" cut into the ground during the Nazi oocupation.

He then headed back to work, and I had two museums to myself. The Island Fortress Occupation Museum is a bit shabby, with yellowed, original newspapers and smudgy handwritten testimonies in the way (if you're of a tallish persuasion) of the dusty old dioramas.

Still, the scope of the first-hand accounts is very impressive, and the 45 minute documentary also covers a lot of perspectives - from the locals, the resistance, and even the occupiers. Judging by the glasses and clothes, these interviews were conducted in the 60s and 70s, so the memories are still fresh and vivid.

In fact, there's palpable bitterness about the way black marketeers were able to exchange their Marks for Sterling after the war - as it was like the British Government condoned the profiteering. Evidence about collaboration and so on also seems to have gone unremarked on, to the consternation of those who reported in. Especially when girls who'd perhaps had little choice but to "Jerry-bag" were hounded through the streets...

Then to the Jersey Museum, which is more up-to-date and interactive. Learnt all sorts of top facts, like the fact that now cows have been imported since 1812, so as to preserve the famous breed. I can also now tell the distinctive features of the Jersey arch.

The Dr would have liked the 1861 merchant's house (part of the Jersey museum), especially the nursery-room drawings of different nations' characters. Also delighted by the museum shop pushing it's Lily Langtree biography. The Jersey born-and-buried toffs' crumpet was famous, they say, for her acting. And so was the John Nettles of her day.

After an American-sized sandwich with Liadnan for lunch, I climbed up to Fort Regent in the hope of some fun castle-y bits to look at, but there weren't any. Plodded back down and have spent the last hour in the Maritime Museum.

Clearly aimed at kids, there were lots of buttons to press and so on. Don't remember the Greenwich one being this much fun, but then a) I'm usually there with the distinguished academic, and b) there was no one else there so I could play.

Best thing was a globe with bright blue liquid inside that swirled around, and you pressed a button and the breeze coming in from the top picked up, and MADE A WHIRLPOOL!

The exhibtion also passes through a real, live boat-fixing workshop, which was the only point I wished there'd been other people round me. Felt a bit of a tit watching the experts on my own.

After the Nettles-narrated film about local sea-life, I pootled round the Occupation Tapestry, each pannel lovingly knitted by a different local parish. I like the colours in the sky.

Short time to kill before Liadnan's off work, and he promises drinkies tonight. He also wants to do the top-looking castle in the bay, which is why I've resisted that temptation so far.

Oh, and a correspondent tells me to check out the zoo. He says they have an Aye-aye, which - even more pleasingly - "there was no chance of seeing in Madagascar".

Will endeavour to report back soon.