It never rains...

And so to the middle season of the year, whatever it's called. I don't want to jinx it like last year (meteorological predictions having nothing to do with complex air pressure over the Pacific and everything to do with whether I say certain words or not) so I won't say the actual word. But we all know what it is. And it's traditionally the busiest time of the year for tour guides, what with all the tourists wandering around with money to spend and ignorance to combat. I'm doing my bit, more or less. And for the sake of the Clerkenwell and Islington Guides, and my part-time employers the Harlequin, (and hopefully my bank balance) I'm putting on a little peripatetic event followed by Pimms and lemonade.

There are always downsides a tie-in with hospitality providers, but the sticky issue of being beholden to the landlords is only the case if one runs regular tours, and is taking some kind of kickback. It's not professional, and it's not worth it.

It's actually quite a good thing that something else has potentially turned up. The temptation when planning a tour is always to spend far too much time on research into obscure side-issues and forget to concentrate on the really important things, the presentation, and remembering what's important. One more or less factoid found after three hours is not going to make or break it. Failing to engage the imagination of the audience, on the other hand, is a killer...

Plans have been mooted for a database index of facts to save having to check the same books over and over, but that depends to an extent on the willingness of Miss B, currently sleeping off what might generously be called overindulgence, having finished her degree, bar the shouting - literally, in this case, as she still has to take a viva for her project. It shouldn't be a problem, as long as she doesn't start arguing with the examiner...

Six and Out

six hours of walking, and i'm officially knackered, perhaps even suffering from heat exhaustion. still, it's better than working for a living, and i made 35 people happy today which has to be good for the general stock of humanity. Two tours through the backstreets of the City to see some old churches doesn't sound that inviting, not on a beautiful, sitting in Finsbury Circus, drinking Pimms and watching the world (or at least its female contingent) go by sort of a day, but I'm glad I did it. Quite how I'm going to do it again tomorrow when i can barely feel my legs is another matter...

extra points if anyone knows where this photo was taken...

surely not

Every way I've looked at it, I can't escape the impression that the angel is projectile vomiting. Did the sculptor not see it? Can I really talk about the high-relief quoins and neo-classical pastiche in dispassionate tones when all I can see is a cherub insouciantly yakking up a bunch of flowers?