A Fold In Time

Some excellent friends came down for the weekend to spend time with us and see the Tower of London. It was great to see them, and as ever, the Tower remains the centre of the London tesseract. Sometimes it feels so thick and heavy and cold, even in Summer. They say that here was buried the head of Bran the Blessed, whose name means Raven, and Arthur had it dug up, determined that he should be the only eternal protector of the shores. But the tower remains a place of heads and ravens, and there's nothing even he could do to change that.

The ravens are my favourite point of visit at the tower. They're so huge and glossy and disturbingly friendly. The Daily Mail speaks of the two lost last year, to foxes apparently, but it's the Mail and it 'never did speak true...' the Tower website does not mention these two...though it does say of two who flew off, despite the clipped wings; one liked TV aerials and the other was last seen outside an East End pub. It cheers me to know that they can leave if they feel like, though on a diet of 170 grams of meat a day plus bird biscuits soaked in blood, the smart ones know that the good life is at home.




Speaking of home, I go to see mother tomorrow. This always worries me, but always works out fine. Yet I don't feel quite right, in fact, I feel somewhat ill and dizzy.