Crime and (lack of) punishment
Just back from dougs's official birthday celebrations. I met him and julia_winolj and nerosmaster in St James' Park for the end of their picnic, worried several innocent passers-by by offering them free chocolate cake, then we set off for Doggett's.
I found a fig tree on the Embankment with ripe fruit. Windfall figs are not something I expect to find on the streets of London. I picked and ate two. They were tiny and leathery and flavourless, though not actually sour or bitter. I think the problem is that figs are pollinated by tiny symbiotic wasps that live inside the fruit, and London lacks the right wasps, so they were unfertilised and thus never became succulent.
As we crossed Waterloo Bridge, we realised that we were Late. I volunteered to get on my bike and dash down to the pub and convey this intelligence to whichever of Doug's guests were already there, as a reversal of our more habitual roles. I duly did so, to the consternation and confusion of littlemissjane and hawkida. Later, we also got visits from drflickta and alexmc. The same pub was also the venue for Polyday, so accompanied by flickgc and seph_hazard, I ventured upstairs to say hello to folk like uon and julietk and d_floorlandmine - and an unexpected the_magician. Which was nice.
So far, so fine and pleasant.
But at the end of the night, as the last 3 - myself, Doug & Julia - gathered our belongings to leave, I discovered that my bag had been stolen.
Earlier, a dubious-looking Eastern European sort of chap had tried to come and join us. Alex asked him if he was with us; he did not seem to understand the question, but when informed that this was a sort of private gathering, he shouldered his bag and left.
Only I suspect it wasn't his bag.
It didn't contain anything massively expensive. My IoM TT 2007 commemorative fleece, but due to confusion at the post office, I have 2 of those anyway. A bag of gum and cough sweets and things. My chequebook. And 3 books: Anthony Burgess' Language Made Plain, Richard Kadrey's Metrophage - both of which I'm part way through, one fiction, one non - and one I grabbed on the way out the door 'cos it's a favourite and a fancied it was time for my annual re-read. Terry Pratchett's The Dark Side of the Sun. My original first-edition NEL paperback from the late 1970s; his first adult novel, his first ever paperback. I bought mine in a remaindered book rack in a small supermarket in Warri-Effurun in Bendel State in Nigeria's Niger Delta region in about 1978 or so. 40 kobo.
That copy is priceless to me. Replacement cost: well, I shudder to think. Maybe a thousand quid? I really don't know.
I'm also currently reading Peter Watts' Starfish on my Psion netBook, thanks to the recommendations of drplokta & autopope. I'm very glad I decided not to take the netBook with me. I considered it, but rejected it as too heavy and too valuable and possibly in need of a recharge.
The pub, naturally, knew & had found nothing, but let me use their phone to report it to the police.
So, glumly, I went to search the area. I looked in every bin and down every dark alley east and south of Blackfriars for half a mile or so. It took me a good hour. Eventually I returned to the pub, used their loo, then set off westwards, again searching alleys.
And in Marigold Alley, almost next door to the pub, I found, on the steps to a block of flats, a small pile of all my possessions. My bag of desiderata; my fleece; my picnic leftovers... And the books. All three of them. He took the bag, an apple and my checkbook, as far as I can see.
So not only a nasty venal little scrote, but a stupid nasty venal little scrote. I didn't expect he'd recognise the value, but he took a £15 knapsack (brand new, but hey), and left a book worth at least 10x that, maybe 100x that.
But I got it back.
And I still made the last Tube from London Bridge.
That was a rotten end to the evening, but I am so very glad to have my stuff. Especially the book.
I'm going to bed now, to read it.
I found a fig tree on the Embankment with ripe fruit. Windfall figs are not something I expect to find on the streets of London. I picked and ate two. They were tiny and leathery and flavourless, though not actually sour or bitter. I think the problem is that figs are pollinated by tiny symbiotic wasps that live inside the fruit, and London lacks the right wasps, so they were unfertilised and thus never became succulent.
As we crossed Waterloo Bridge, we realised that we were Late. I volunteered to get on my bike and dash down to the pub and convey this intelligence to whichever of Doug's guests were already there, as a reversal of our more habitual roles. I duly did so, to the consternation and confusion of littlemissjane and hawkida. Later, we also got visits from drflickta and alexmc. The same pub was also the venue for Polyday, so accompanied by flickgc and seph_hazard, I ventured upstairs to say hello to folk like uon and julietk and d_floorlandmine - and an unexpected the_magician. Which was nice.
So far, so fine and pleasant.
But at the end of the night, as the last 3 - myself, Doug & Julia - gathered our belongings to leave, I discovered that my bag had been stolen.
Earlier, a dubious-looking Eastern European sort of chap had tried to come and join us. Alex asked him if he was with us; he did not seem to understand the question, but when informed that this was a sort of private gathering, he shouldered his bag and left.
Only I suspect it wasn't his bag.
It didn't contain anything massively expensive. My IoM TT 2007 commemorative fleece, but due to confusion at the post office, I have 2 of those anyway. A bag of gum and cough sweets and things. My chequebook. And 3 books: Anthony Burgess' Language Made Plain, Richard Kadrey's Metrophage - both of which I'm part way through, one fiction, one non - and one I grabbed on the way out the door 'cos it's a favourite and a fancied it was time for my annual re-read. Terry Pratchett's The Dark Side of the Sun. My original first-edition NEL paperback from the late 1970s; his first adult novel, his first ever paperback. I bought mine in a remaindered book rack in a small supermarket in Warri-Effurun in Bendel State in Nigeria's Niger Delta region in about 1978 or so. 40 kobo.
That copy is priceless to me. Replacement cost: well, I shudder to think. Maybe a thousand quid? I really don't know.
I'm also currently reading Peter Watts' Starfish on my Psion netBook, thanks to the recommendations of drplokta & autopope. I'm very glad I decided not to take the netBook with me. I considered it, but rejected it as too heavy and too valuable and possibly in need of a recharge.
The pub, naturally, knew & had found nothing, but let me use their phone to report it to the police.
So, glumly, I went to search the area. I looked in every bin and down every dark alley east and south of Blackfriars for half a mile or so. It took me a good hour. Eventually I returned to the pub, used their loo, then set off westwards, again searching alleys.
And in Marigold Alley, almost next door to the pub, I found, on the steps to a block of flats, a small pile of all my possessions. My bag of desiderata; my fleece; my picnic leftovers... And the books. All three of them. He took the bag, an apple and my checkbook, as far as I can see.
So not only a nasty venal little scrote, but a stupid nasty venal little scrote. I didn't expect he'd recognise the value, but he took a £15 knapsack (brand new, but hey), and left a book worth at least 10x that, maybe 100x that.
But I got it back.
And I still made the last Tube from London Bridge.
That was a rotten end to the evening, but I am so very glad to have my stuff. Especially the book.
I'm going to bed now, to read it.