#Flooring in Maida Vale

[bostonfly]

a luminous Sinéad O’Connor in one of her early shoots

This grid of 48 black and white photographs comprises the entirety of the four rolls of film that Andrew Catlin shot of a young Sinéad O’Connor in 1988 following the release of her debut album, The Lion and the Cobra. O’Connor was just 21 years old and the session was one of the first photoshoots she had ever done. “The photographs were taken in natural light at the kitchen table of my flat in Maida Vale, with Sinéad facing the window and me sitting with my back to it,” Catlin recalls. “It was the first time we met, although it turned out that she had just moved into a flat a few floors above me. We chatted over a cup of tea and continued chatting throughout the shoot. There was minimal instruction from me.”

[tvindek]

Sinéad O’Connor, 1988. Photographs: Andrew Catlin

“The photographs were taken in natural light at the kitchen table of my flat in Maida Vale, with Sinéad facing the window and me sitting with my back to it,” Catlin recalls. “It was the first time we met, although it turned out that she had just moved into a flat a few floors above me. We chatted over a cup of tea and continued chatting throughout the shoot. There was minimal instruction from me.”

[indigokashmir]

Charming Public Houses and Bar Culture

Sophisticated Ambiance and Impeccable Décor, Showcasing some of London's Most Stylish Establishments.

There has been a lot of thought and creativity that have gone into some of these lovely places in London. Let's take a look!

The Club1 Room in The Mayfair Townhouse: An exuberant and whimsical Georgian townhouse, Club 1's design explores the personas of the area's original residents while embracing the mischievous spirit of the Dandy. Surprising elements, curiosities, and a light-hearted, playful design theme permeate this space.

The Albion, Islington: Alfresco dining in the wisteria-covered beer garden. It is a Georgian gem from a time when Islington was fields and farmland, and where the regulars would take afternoon walks out of the city to visit this pub. The gastropub has undergone a faithful Georgian restoration, showcasing the place's rickety floors, nostalgic wood-paneled walls, and appealing mixture of varied chairs and tables. The French windows in the restaurant area open onto over 450 square meters of wisteria-filled English countryside garden.

The Hero of Maida Vale: Featuring charming blue paneling, this traditional Victorian pub is nestled in the heart of Maida Vale, between the picturesque neighborhoods of Warwick Avenue and Little Venice.

Experimental Cocktail Club in Chinatown, London: The interiors of this speakeasy-style bar embrace a fusion of world influences. With exposed brick, opulent furnishings, and an air of mystery, the bar is discreetly concealed behind a door in Chinatown.

Farmacy London: The restaurant's interiors highlight its environmentally conscious brand with untreated woods and natural fibre upholstery integrated into the design.

The Cleveland Arms in Paddington: This Victorian-era Grade II listed pub has struck a perfect balance between traditional, homely, and stylish.

Nightjar in Shoreditch (now open in Carnaby Street as well): Oozing old-school glamour, this subterranean speakeasy-style bar boasts a dark and moody interior style to match its ambiance.

[mr-ig]

On Bogshed

Yes, the name. Yes. Unavoidable, so let's get it over with. No band has ever conquered the world, or even small parts of it, with a name like 'Bogshed'. Aware of that obstacle themselves, there's an entertaining anecdote, re-told in the notes accompanying a splendid 'Bog-set' reissue of their back catalogue on CD, in which the foursome head to the pub to thrash out a better moniker. After many hours and many pints, they manage nothing better than 'Tarty Lad'. They couldn't help themselves, that's the thing.

And they were widely reviled for it, more's the pity. I do wonder, in passing, if they'd have been quite so thoroughly sneered at if they'd hailed from somewhere less unfashionable (then, if not now) than Hebden Bridge, but they were frequently held up as a scapegoat for all that was wrong with mid-eighties indie: a miserable lack of ambition dressed up as bold independence, a dearth of skill masquerading as an artistic choice. They weren't helped in that by John Peel, who despite being an ardent admirer of the band, hung the word "shambling" around their necks. History insists on telling us that they'd have been long forgotten were it not for an appearance on the NME's C86 cassette.

None of that seems terribly fair, really. Along with Peel, and regardless of the C86 legend, and in spite of there now only being one member still alive, some of us have continued to remember Bogshed with huge fondness as the years have passed. They were an oddity then, they're an oddity now.

What they weren't, however, was wilfully obscure: the mis-labelling of their sound seems particularly frustrating given that, actually, it was remarkably easy to grasp if you bothered to try. Repetitive to the point of making the Fall sound like a free-jazz experiment, the beauty of the perfect Bogshed song is in establishing a simple and entirely logical riff, often led by Mike Bryson's chunky bass and then filled in with Mark McQuaid's spindly guitar before Tris King's drums pin it all to the floor, and then not changing it very much at all for three minutes. If you don't like the first ten seconds, there's nothing for you here. If, on the other hand, those seconds get your foot a-tapping, you're in for a right old treat, my friend.

Pretty much every Bogshed song is a joyous interlocking of those functional drum-bass-guitar parts, a firm-but-fun rhythm section which merrily barrels along underneath Phil Hartley's vocals. Those vocals are bold, sometimes squawky; they're distinguished from the post-punk crowd by a vague air of vaudeville, a whiff of end-of-the-pier entertainment. Even at his shoutiest, you knew that Hartley could be a crooner if he felt so inclined. The lyrics were odd, full of curious characters and surreal references, nostalgic and a bit parochial and occasionally somewhat bawdy, always loaded with Hartley's personality. Even when you didn't know what on earth he was banging on about, there was much to enjoy.

Viewed from the right angle, ignoring the warts and the boils, their essential jauntiness, their geniality, was inescapable. There are very few songs in their catalogue which won't leave you feeling just a little merrier than when they began. Bogshed wrote pop songs for singing in the shower, played them as if people would shake a leg on the dancefloor. Not their fault - name aside - if nobody did either.

Of the box set contents, the disk of Peel sessions is of particular academic interest. As so often, the Maida Vale recordings appear to capture the band as they actually wanted to sound; the rest of their output captures how they could afford to sound. There must be hundreds of bands of whom that's true. The first session, from 1985, finds a band clearly indebted to the muscular sound of the Membranes, on whose label they released a clattering first EP, also included; each subsequent session refines it just a little, fencing off their own patch amid a scene crowded with potential rivals. The different elements become clearer, the intentions less febrile.

Elsewhere, the first album, "Step On It", continues to be a personal favourite, even if its production only seems to have got thinner over the years. Even the cheapest studio can't suck the life out of these wonderful songs entirely, though: the scurrying absurdity of "Fastest Legs", the preposterous glam strut of "Mechanical Nun", the seesaw saaandwiiich-baar lurch of "Adventure Of Dog". A particular soft spot has always been occupied by "Tommy Steele Record", with its gentle trundling bassline and nostalgic tales of chip papers and childhood bed times; no other band of that era would've come up with something so unapologetically warm, so lacking in devilment. It's just a charming song, and it appears to aspire no higher (or lower).

"Brutal", its 1987 follow-up, broadens the palette considerably, but too late to win the wider attention it deserved. There are moments of genuine darkness; there's a punkish anger at play too; Hartley has diversified his range of accents; the differences of opinion that'd make it their last record are pretty easy to spot. And yet there's still a lightness too: "Loaf" releases Hartley's inner crooner to curiously touching effect, "No To Lemon Mash" is knowingly and gleefully ridiculous even by their standards. When they stick with the tried and tested formula, they've rarely been better: "Excellent Girl" is a riotous hoedown of a song, while album opener "Raise The Girl", thrust forward by a relentless chin-jutting riff which just gets more and more insistent for four minutes, would surely have been an indie disco staple if it'd belonged to a cooler band. They never were that band, though. When push came to shove, I'm not sure that they really wanted to be. Not enough, anyway. All four of them came up with that name, none of the four came up with something more sensible to replace it. They were Bogshed, they lived in a cottage on a hillside, they made a jovial racket that you'd never mistake for anyone else. If you succumbed to their charms, you took them warts and boils and all. 

[gtremovalsuk]

Furniture Removal Tips You Wish You Knew Earlier

Little do people know that counting on the professionals will enable you to be in a win-win situation and sail through your removals just like a cakewalk. Whether you reside in a large house or want to move from one property to another that is located far away, relying on a professional removalist will help you get stress-free removals.

Furniture removal turns out to be a big headache, and here are a few tips that will help you:

Disassemble the Furniture in the First Instance:

It is essential for you to sail through your removals in Marylebone under professional guidance. First, it is crucial for you to disassemble the furniture pieces so that you can properly store them in boxes and rearrange them in your new house. Be careful while taking out the legs and tables, and click pictures wherever necessary so that they help you in the assembling process.

Use Appropriate Furniture Removal Tools:

Try to connect with professionals so that you can get the best removals across Swiss Cottage. Making use of the necessary furniture removal tools makes it easier for you to glide the heavy furniture pieces across the room without causing any damage to them. You can make use of furniture slides or old blankets, as they will reduce the friction between the floor and the furniture and prevent both from incurring any damage.

Start the Packing Process as Soon as Possible:

Little do people know that relying on experts to sail through your removals in Maida Vale is a win-win situation. Try to get in touch with the professionals, as they are well-versed in helping you get the best possible services and packing of your belongings just the right way. It is important for you to start with the packing process as soon as possible, as this will save you from last-minute hassles.

Do Not Stress Yourself and Seek Help From a Professional Removal Company:

Counting on the experts offering best-in-class house removals in Westminster seems like a cakewalk! It is not possible for you to stress yourself beyond your capacity, and seeking professional help will save you from a lot of legwork and hassles.

In a Nutshell: Try to get in touch with professionals as they are well-versed in helping you be in a win-win situation. Little do people know that counting on the professionals will make your removals easier, faster and worry-free!

[musicblogwales]

Thallo unveils the fantastic ‘Pluo’ visual out now via Cosh Records 

On the new single, Thallo showcases her unique sound, one that is enveloping, otherworldly, and multi-instrumented, spanning bedroom and dream-pop with subtle, textured jazz infusions and contemporary classic touches, both ethereal and utterly enthralling. Pluo translates as ‘feathering’ in English, meaning ‘lightly snowing’ which relates to the song’s poignant opening line “I gather dust which is feathering stillness.” Inspired by the effects of a sudden illness that Thallo suffered in 2020 which caused chronic knee pain and debilitating mobility issues, Pluo touches on the peculiar pain of watching the world return to normal following lockdown, whilst Thallo was trapped in what she describes as “My own personal lockdown.” As she expands, “I felt so stuck, unable to return to my normal life. But most of all, the song is a cry of fear for the loneliness and hopelessness of being left behind whilst everyone else moves forward.” Pluo’s accompanying video, a collaboration with Welsh channel Lŵp (S4C), takes inspiration from psychological horror and is filmed at the popular ghost-hunting spot Bron y Garth Hospital, a former 1800s workhouse/hospital now abandoned and frozen in-time, as Thallo explains “The setting perfectly mirrors Pluo’s lyrics of feeling stuck and deteriorating.” It sees Thallo wake to find herself in a blood-filled bath on the decaying hospital floor, what ensues is a struggle to escape the derelict building peppered with eerie imagery and horrifying flashbacks that lead to the chilling conclusion - that Thallo is in fact dead and trapped in purgatory. Thallo is the work of Gwynedd, North Wales/London based artist Elin Edwards, over the course of her debut Nhw EP  (2018) and a series of highly received singles, notably 2021’s  Mêl, Pressed and Preserved, The Water, and more recently Carry Me (2022) from the forthcoming Crescent EP,  she has garnered radio support from  Sian Eleri (Radio 1) and Huw Stephens (BBC 6 Music, Radio Wales), with Thallo also recording a session at Maida Vale, and received  glowing press coverage in Wonderland, Noctis, God Is In The TV Zine, When The Horn Blows and many other blogs both UK and Stateside. Thallo has performed at The Great Escape and is booked to play 2023’s SXSW.

Ar ei sengl newydd Pluo, mae Thallo yn arddangos ei sain unigryw, un sy’n cydio, yn arallfydol, ac yn aml-offerynnol, yn gyfuniad o 'bedroom pop' a 'dream pop' gyda cyffyrddiadau o jazz cynnil ac elfennau clasurol cyfoes, sy’n creu naws synfyfyriol tra hefyd yn hollol swynol. “Casglu llwch sy'n pluo llonyddwch.” Wedi’i ysbrydoli gan effeithiau salwch sydyn a ddioddefodd Thallo yn 2020 a achosodd boen cronig yn ei phen-gliniau a phroblemau symudedd, mae Pluo yn cyffwrdd â’r boen ryfedd o wylio’r byd yn dychwelyd i normal ar ôl y clo, tra bod Thallo yn gaeth yn yr hyn y mae’n ei ddisgrifio fel “fy nghlo personol fy hun.” Dwedai Thallo “Roeddwn i'n teimlo mor sownd, yn methu â dychwelyd i fy mywyd normal. Ond yn bennaf oll, gwaedd o ofn yw’r gân am yr unigrwydd a’r anobaith o gael eich gadael ar ôl tra bod pawb arall yn symud ymlaen.” 

Mae’r fideo yn cael ei hysbrydoli gan y genre ffilm arswyd seicolegol ac wedi ei saethu yn y man hela ysbrydion poblogaidd Ysbyty Bron y Garth, cyn wyrcws/ysbyty o’r 1800au sydd bellach wedi’i adael yn wag ac wedi rhewi mewn amser. Eglurai Thallo “Mae’r lleoliad yn adlewyrchu geiriau ‘Pluo’ o deimlo’n sownd ac yn dirywio.” Mae’r fideo’n gweld Thallo’n ffeindio’i hun yn deffro mewn bath llawn gwaed ar lawr yr ysbyty, yr hyn sy’n dilyn yw brwydr i ddianc o’r adeilad adfeiliedig, yn frith o ddelweddau iasol ac ôl-fflachiadau arswydus sy’n arwain at y syweddoliad at ddiwedd y fideo – bod Thallo mewn gwirionedd wedi marw ac yn gaeth mewn purdan. Cynhyrchu a Chyfarwyddo - Aled Wyn Jones Cyfarwyddo, DOP a Golygu - Andy Pritchard Celf - Jamie Walker Gyda diolch i Andy Smallbone a Virginia Chuck - Ysbyty Bron Y Garth Geiriau/Lyrics: Casglu llwch sy’n pluo llonyddwch Fel diwrnod diddiwedd Fel diwrnod diddiwedd yn dal i ddod Arhosa fan hyn Dwi methu symud o’r unfan di-ddim Dwi methu symud o’r unfan Mor rhyfedd gwylio dy hun yn dirywio Fel diwrnod diddiwedd Fel diwrnod diddiwedd yn dal i ddod Arhosa fan hyn Dwi methu symud o’r unfan di-ddim Arhosa fan hyn Dwi methu symud o’r unfan di-ddim Arhosa fan hyn Dwi methu symud o’r unfan di-ddim (Casglu llwch sy’n pluo llonyddwch fel diwrnod diddiwedd, fel diwrnod diddiwedd yn dal i ddod) 

 Pluo lyrics (English translation): 

 I gather dust which is feathering stillness like an endless day, like an endless day that keeps coming Stay here I can’t move from this useless spot I can’t move from this spot So strange watching yourself deteriorate like an endless day, like an endless day that keeps coming Stay here I can’t move from this useless spot Stay here I can’t move from this useless spot I can’t move from this spot Stay here I can’t move from this useless spot I can’t move from this spot (I gather dust which is feathering stillness like an endless day, like an endless day that keeps coming) 

 Recordiau Côsh Records www.rcoshr.com Cerddoriaeth newydd a diwylliant cyfoes Cymru 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 New Welsh music and contemporary culture 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 Gwasga'r botwm 'Subscribe' TikTok, Instagram, Twitter & Facebook - @Lwps4c

[rio3xx]

Arctic Monkeys – I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor live at Maida Vale

[kenyatta]

On the night of January 18 1975, whilst walking back from a Phil Manzanera session at Island Records' Basing Street studio to his home in Maida Vale, Brian Eno found himself engulfed by thoughts of darkness and sudden death... "For about a week I'd been feeling that I was about to have an accident. It was the same feeling as I'd had before I got appendicitis when I was 16 - or before my lung collapsed when I was doing my first and last tour at exactly the same point in 1974. "I always seem to sense when I've pushed too hard, you know? When I've been carried off on the momentum of media approval or professional opportunism and have ceased to think about where I am and what I'm doing. "We'd just finished the song called 'Miss Shapiro' and I found myself thinking 'I wonder if that's the last thing I'll ever record?' and saying 'Well, I wouldn't mind so much if it was' sort of thing. "And then I thought 'What the hell are you talking about?' You know - what a ridiculous train of thought to be on. "About a hundred yards further up the road I walked in front of a taxi."

[...]

Darkness and sudden death. The self-sustained impetus of thought experienced a kind of hiatus in a hospital off the Harrow Road and in the pale emptiness of Eno's modernistic ground-floor apartment in W.9.

He was in a state of "moderate disorientation" and had no way of telling whether this was permanent or simply the passing effects of concussion.

He also had a sneaking fear that his brain might have been damaged and felt obscurely that he ought to think while he still could - before he started to deteriorate...

In the haze of his convalescence, Judy Nylon came one day and brought him a record of virtuoso harp music. When she'd gone again, he hobbled to the gramophone, put the album on, and collapsed, exhausted, back into bed.

The room was in half-darkness and it was raining heavily outside. Eno waited for the sound of the music.

"...It was much too quiet and one side of the stereo wasn't working and the side that was the furthest away from me and pointing in the opposite direction anyway, but I was too weak to get up and change it.

"So I drifted into this kind of fitful sleep, a mixture of pain-killers and tiredness. And I started hearing this record as if I'd never heard music before.

"It was a really beautiful experience, I got the feeling of icebergs, you know? I would just occasionally hear the loudest parts of the music, get a little flurry of notes coming out above the sound of the rain - and then it'd drift away again...

"And I began to think of environmental music - music deliberately constructed to occupy the background. And I realised that muzak was a very strong concept and not a load of rubbish, as most people supposed."

And what did Muzak think of you?

"They didn't seem very interested. None of the canned music companies did. They're making money hand-over-fist, so they probably don't care about new ideas.

"Anyway, the result was that I resolved to make a much stronger commitment to experimental music and take it much more seriously.

"Firstly, I thought contemporary experimental music was too intellectual and ignored the possibilities of appealing to the senses - whereas rock seemed to be off in the opposite direction, there being a strong heavy metal revival on at around this time.

"So I figured something ought to happen in between that was extremely beautiful but unengaging, as it were. So you could enter it on any level you chose, ie., sitting there with headphones on, really listening to what was going on - or else you could turn it down and let it sit in the background.

"The only thing I knew that sounded anything like that was Gavin Bryars' The Sinking Of The Titanic, which was why it was the first release on Obscure Records.

"Anyway, on May 9 1975, I did Discreet Music which, for me, crystallized this new style."

Discreet Music is Eno's personal favourite amongst his own creations.

I shared this story while speaking to a design class about the role of serendipity and chaos in producing interestingness. Sometimes there are happy accidents, other times they are tragic. Interestingness can be born of either.

[theemptyquarto]

Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary.  Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s.  Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic.  A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T.  This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful.  Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind.  Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist.  Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page.  Between books.  And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject  of his “sad bereavement” is.  The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie?  Why did you do that?  I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories.  Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway.  Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason.  That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children.  Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent.  When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa.  Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets.  Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult.  But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death.  Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality.  Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.  

Whatever the cause, my life was empty.  I ate when I remembered that I was meant to.  I wore pajamas all day.  I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair.  The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally.  He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.  

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason.  John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet.  I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died.  His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17.  The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious.  While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning.  This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor.  There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.  

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags.  The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away.  And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing.  The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity.  Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened.  Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime.  He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions.  It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene.  I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself.  It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis.  Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.  

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done.  It was past time I actually started doing things again.  I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John.  Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day.  I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane.  I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through.  I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot.  The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks.  I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.  

Then I stopped.  There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come.  It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle.  John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun.  But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently?  That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police.  If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise.  We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat.  But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark.  The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry.  It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me.  Grace has always eluded me.  The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!”  I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.  

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier.  I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love.  True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages.  But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long.  Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time.  Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.  

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.  

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed.  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you.  It was an accident.  If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love.  Just a load of rubbish.  Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with.  But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.”  The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly.  But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine.  I just got a little upset.  Thank you.”  The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me.  I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming.  There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it.  They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things.  Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven.  “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter.  She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter.  A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.  

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

  The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume.   Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not.  If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance.  The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible.  I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this.  On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such.  Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses.  She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.  

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson.  Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that.  John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.  

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings.  Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards.  There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger.  Thus, teacher.”  

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive.  Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort.  It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.”  Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts.  Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it.  But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely.  The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed.  Giggled, really.  But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected.  Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview.  Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy.  Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted.  Oh dear.

“John.  I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition.  I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John.  State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right.  Well.   I suppose I have to go back to the beginning.  My father, Thomas Morstan, was English.  I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around.  Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing.  Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London.  I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm.  Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché.  Just an office job, basically.  Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there.  No answer when I tried to call him.  I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room.  Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him.  I never saw him again.”

“Interesting.  Did the police investigate?”  John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past.  She should have been well beyond it by this point.  But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth.  Oedipal complex.  She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes.  They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t.  They never do.  Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto.  He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm.  I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today.  What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet.  From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink.  The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email.  I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No.  And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced.   It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone.  But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens.  Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt.  It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond.  Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help.  It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900.  I know.  After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really.  They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back.  Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.”  So after that I was on my own.  But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily.  He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this.  Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail.  I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference.  Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds.  I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy.  And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter.  Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here.  And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts.  Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer.  The first four were from another.  It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device.  The mailers can be bought anywhere.  Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please?  Thank you.  Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these?  No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that.  “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years.  I’m not that unapproachable.”  I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not.  He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly.  She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to.  If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it.  I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it.  As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really?  You will?  Both of you?  Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing.  It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again.  I responded calmly with, “Yes, well.  Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday?  And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door.  I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really.  I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead.  Sherlock, it’s an objective fact!  She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on.  She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John.  She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock.  And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave.  She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you.  So am I, for that matter.  I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective.  It’s our job.  She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection.  This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue.  She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds?  You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses.  Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise.  But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not.  I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one.  But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled.  “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’.  They’d love to have it down at the Yard.  So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with.  Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me?  My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths.  Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005.  If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right.  What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile.  “I’ve done it.  I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy.  I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”  

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders.  She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful.  I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto.  As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.  

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too.  Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag.  The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police.  We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again.   The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames.  She had accepted this development with equanimity.  As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them.  I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back.  The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat.  I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events.  I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for.  And that was apart from his being a jewel thief.  I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

  Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly.  I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina.  I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property.  I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine.  I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct).  I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place.  She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them.  Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?”  I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question.  I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly.  After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch.  I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water.  He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.  For whatever you did back there.  I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!”  This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat.  “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.  

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary.  She’s wonnerful.  But I’ll miss this life.  And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead.  You’ll be ten minutes away.  I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that?  Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head.  “I do.  Tosser.  Now go to sleep.  You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later.  I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle.  I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested.  The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.  

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco.  I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was.  She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained.  Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat.  There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course.  John was routinely absent when I was there.  The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it.  Three months later, I “died.”  And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled.  Sensory illusion again.  The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything.  Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane.  She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s.  She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out.  I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat.   When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated.  Then I followed.  There were two reasons for this.  The first, as always, was John.  I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman.  In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well…  On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go.   Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn’t faint then.  But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass.  I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers.  With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep.  He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself.  I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend.  We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral.  I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette.  The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.  Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated.  He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.  

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk.  Baker Street, or our place?  My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker.  He even seemed to lose several inches in height.  The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop).  He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you?  About-“

“Your… bereavement?  Yes.  I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief.  It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation.  And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news.  I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat.  I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet.  I retrieved it, and returned to the living room.  Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him.  They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied.  And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain.  It was almost the only color on his face.  Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health.  I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism.  And yet, he had managed.  At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey.  Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned.  It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine.  They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious.  I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him.  I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it.  The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring.  I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me.  When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere.  It only made sense, really.  When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust.  Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment.  That was my stepfather.  He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me.  “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care.  I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit.  You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that.  D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked.  The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair.  “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder.  “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains.  John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists.  The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates.  I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process.  I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No.  Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed.  “Never mind.  Continue.”

[notsoterriblymisanthropic]

After three years and approximately 7,200 "Hello, Tesco delivery, where do you want your shopping?", some customers stick in your mind... I delivered to Grenfell two weeks before the fire. An office on the 29th floor of the Millbank Tower, the former Tory headquarters, where they ordered a lot of ginger biscuits. Through the windows the shadow of the student riot. There is an old man in an estate in Acton who only orders vodka and soup, the flat is filled knee-deep with rubbish, much of it Tesco receipts. We deliver to many elderly care homes. The old man in nappies sits in front of a fan, you have to put the chilled and frozen in the fridge for him. The carers haven't got time. A relative orders ready-meals from outer London. From the life you step into the middle of the hundred square metre sitting room of a penthouse in Maida Vale. The ambassador of Malaysia has servants and a 24-hour UK police post with a machine-gun cop, who lets you in... The daughter ordered the food for her father in a small room in the White Bear Hostel in Hounslow, which he shares with none others in triple bunkbeds. There's no space to put the shopping. Many newborns and tired post-natal women. I delivered to the Royal Stables, to the family above the horses, a security guard walked with me. Outskirts of Watford, a row of pensioners' pavilions. "Love, could you change the lightbulb for us?" A small cabin for London cab drivers early in the morning by the river bank. The cook of the hotel near Paddington, who orders mountains of cereals and rivers of milk, treats you to an egg sandwich. It's foggy, it's sleepy London at 6am, you feel like a Cockney market stall pusher from the 1930s, but the cook is from Albania and you work for Tesco. Hundreds of creative open-plan offices with pale young people in front of screens, very hard to tell what they are doing, but they order a lot of fruit. Lord's Cricket Ground the day before the final. You help people kill themselves with food and booze, literally.

Angry Workers, Class Power on Zero Hours

[professordrarry]

Drarry - “What’s the plan, Harry”

#ministry chaos, part six 

“Good morning,” Draco said to Ron, offering a coffee from the tray in his hands.

“Um…good morning?” Ron replied, puzzled. “You know it’s nine am and not lunch time, right? Did you take a Pixie to the head.” “I know, I just…owed you a coffee.” Ron sighed and stood up. “Okay, enough, Malfoy,” he complained. “Here’s what you’re going to do. He likes the museum. The big Muggle one, in the city.. It’s a bit ridiculous, actually. He looks like a little kid. Just ask him out. It’s Friday. You can handle this.” Draco sputtered for a moment. “I do not need you to… no, you know what, just piss off, Weasley.” Ron raised his hands in surrender, but pasted an infuriating smirk on at the same time. Draco’s face heated and he swallowed back the anger that was stemming from his anxiety and embarrassment. “The museum,” he stated. “You’re sure this is a good idea?” “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ron laughed. “No, absolutely not. This is going to end in a disaster. But here’s the deal; he’s in the middle of changing careers and he’s so distracted he can’t even seem to close cases. So, ask him out, before I just lock you two in a room together to deal with the tension. It’s ruining my life. Now. Get out of my office. He’s not coming in today.” Draco cocked his head. “Wait, he isn’t? Why not?”  “He said something about using up his leave days just in case they decide to pull his seniority,” Ron chuckled. He straightened up a bit as though an idea had struck him. “Hey, Malfoy. You have any extra leave days.” Draco sighed, nodded, and left the room. He had an owl to send and an office to leave.

Ron had scribbled the address of Harry’s flat on a scrap of a memo about floor cleaning charms, and Draco had clutched it so hard it was barely legible by the time he found the blue front door in Maida Vale; it was way nicer than he’d anticipated.

Knocking wasn’t actually that hard. Draco, after all, liked Harry. Against all odds. He wasn’t actually a shrinking violet. It was just…. strange.

“Draco.” Harry smiled as he opened the door. “I had a feeling you’d show up. You ready to go?” Draco was flustered. “Did…did Ron call?” Harry looked back at him confused. “What? No. Why?”

Draco just stared at him. He was wearing a deep green peacoat that Draco had never seen before, and grey trousers that were far fancier than even his regular work attire.

“Where were you going?” Draco asked. “Had some errands to run. It’s fine, you can come with me,” Harry said, grinning again.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Draco blustered.

Harry shrugged. “Not particularly. It’d be nice to have some company, though. I don’t like food shops.”

Suddenly, Draco found his Last Straw. He was a student in last straws; the moments where a Malfoy finally gave up and gave in were rare and eclectic. He liked to search through the history of his family to find them. In fact, survival in his early teens had been completely predicated on the fact that there were far more damnable Last Straws in the generations that came before his than being openly gay.

Staring at Harry now, his whole stance unfazed and relaxed in his belief that Draco just would do whatever he expected him to, he finds himself in the interesting position of being able to act impulsively.

Draco is not an impulsive person but he was suddenly quite furious. How dare Potter believe that he’s the only one who can deliver shocking edicts and insufferable flirting?

When he acts, he is fully committed. He is present and entirely aware of what he is doing. This means that when Harry’s back slams into the door behind him hard enough to rattle the window in its pane and something deep within him growls in satisfaction, Draco is completely aware of it happening.

When he shoves a knee between Potter’s legs and pins him by the chest, he is acutely conscious of the sensations he is met with from his head to his groin. And when he finally leans down to kiss Harry, the sparks in his brain and the roll of his stomach are so intense that he’s not sure he isn’t going to be sick.

He doesn’t really have time to contemplate the problem, though, because suddenly Harry is present as well, groaning and murmuring “fucking finally, Malfoy” before putting significantly more effort into the kiss than Draco had been prepared for.

They remain in this embattled embrace; Draco knows they look like horny teenagers at his parent’s door after curfew. For a few minutes, he also doesn’t care. He wants to scream when the shame creeps back in, guided by the fact that Harry is now rutting ever so slightly against his knee.

“What’s the plan, Harry,” he gasps, pulling back. “Food shopping, remember?”

“Sod that,” Harry replies, reaching behind him with one hand to open the door and dragging Draco inside with him with the other. “I can starve, I don’t even care. Inside. Now.”

The door slamming makes Draco startle; he’s pretty sure neither of them had actually touched it. The spark of frenetic magic wafts into his consciousness, right before Harry pulls off his shirt in the middle of the entryway, and Draco’s consciousness decides to fully take its leave.

[threefalcons-blog]

Things to know about Three Falcons Hotel

Most of you may know the Three Falcons Hotel as the leading bar Edgware Road but there is more to it than. The first thing that you notice about the hotel is its fantastic location – it is just at a stone’s throw from the West End and is also located close to St John’s Wood. The same thing can also be said of Little Venice and Maida Vale. It is a little gem and is a typically friendly and lively pub that you normally get to see in England. It has plenty of hospitality and warmth to offer to you. 

The ambiance of a neighborhood pub

This bar in Edgware Road offers you exactly the kind of ambiance that you would want in your neighborhood pub. The area itself is replete with charm and historic significance. The atmosphere at the Three Falcons Hotel is so welcoming and relaxed that you would find yourself immersed in it for a long time. The hotel is located close to some of the most prominent attractions in London such as the Lord’s Cricket Ground, Oxford Street, and Madame Tussaud’s. When you are here you should stop over here for a few bites and a couple of drinks.

The food that you get over here

The quality of a bar in Edgware Road is determined to a significant extent by the quality of food that you get over there. The Three Falcons Hotel is no exception either. The food that you get over here is essentially British. The menus at this hotel tend to change in keeping with the season. The drinks menu over here comprises some of the finest options that you can get in this part of the world. This includes the following:

● Local London craft ales

● Beers

● Classic champagnes

● Select gins

● Curated wines

Accommodation options

If you want to stay here, you are more than welcome to do so. The bedrooms at this bar in Edgware Road are located on the second floor. There are 12 of them and they are refurbished. This means that they are as beautiful as they come. These are en-suite rooms that we are talking about over here. This means that you get all the facilities that you need for a comfortable stay over here. You have facilities such as the following: 

● Flat-screen TV that comes with a DVD (digital video disc) player

● Egyptian cotton sheets 

● Tea and coffee maker

● Ironing board and iron

● Delicious breakfast

Conclusion

If you are looking for a comfortable place where you can stay this is the perfect option for sure. It is because of reasons such as these that the Three Falcons Hotel is the ideal option for so many scenarios. Do you want a quick drink? Do you want to relax with your friends? Do you want to spend a night or two in London? You can be sure that this Bar Edgware Road would be the best place to stay right at the heart of the United Kingdom.

[dylanjohnsonstuff]

Looking for Deep Cleaning in North Maida Vale? Then look further to Owen's House Cleaning Ltd.Owen's House Cleaning Ltd is a brand new company specialised in house cleaning at all levels and needs of the costumer.Owen has over 8 years experience in the cleaning services and is here to offer you the best cleaning of your house at the highest standards.End of Tenancy, After Builders, Deep Clean, Steam Carpet Cleaning, Oven, Windows, Floors, etc. To know more visit them now.

[studio29architectsuk]

Do you know Alfies Antique Market? We adore it: 4 floors of vintage and antique furniture, textiles, jewellery and collectables of the highest quality. Today I found this 50’s Cavalletto desk by Franco Albini, perfect for our client’s home office in Maida Vale at @cupiogallery and I eyed a few mirrors to complete the flat In Chelsea. Our tip: before investing in a new design piece, go to Alfies, see and touch the quality, workmanship and charm of high quality vintage and fall in ❤️. . . . . @alfiesantiques #francoalbini #cavallettodesk #50sstyle #italiandesign #vintagefurniture #vintagelondon #marylebone #alfiesantiques #midcenturystyle #sustainableshopping #letsmakeahome #studio29interiors (at Alfies Antique Market) https://www.instagram.com/p/CWoMmJ-oUZD/?utm_medium=tumblr

[unkindnessofone]

Keep Up

It’s been awhile since I’ve written these little families. Just sat down and wrote what came to mind. I hope you like it. 

Even though no one was talking directly to her about it, Molly could sense things were changing. She was no longer the center of her parent's universe since she now had a sibling, a baby brother with wispy blond hairs on his head that her mother referred to exclusively as 'spun gold'. The lazy days at home in their London loft were becoming busier and the schedule had shifted from routine to packed. The afternoons where her dad would bundle her up in blue knit cardigan, Burberry as chosen by her mum, and walk with her to Regent's Park with their golden retriever had become less and less. It was something she could on happening before dinner every day and now it was a surprise, her father poking his head into her bedroom to interrupt her playing with the offer. He used to do it to give her mom a break, leave her alone with Connor or to nap, but now he was doing it for his own gain. He wanted private time with Molly, yearning for closeness, as their quiet life was headed to an end.

Fashion Week in London was a few months away and it collided with the album release for Ashton's band, the first record they had put out in years, the last one coming out right after Emmeline was born. He was going to be occupied with press before embarking on an exhausting tour while his wife was tending to her own new collection. Molly didn't know what changes were coming or what her life was supposed to be, she could just sense a shift in the apartment. The fact that many of their things were being packed up and her parents were always having their own conversations right above her frizzy head of hair was giving it away.

She was laying on her belly, legs folded in the air behind her, and playing with a container of plastic fish toys on the floor of Simone's home office. Molly had no interest in gemstones and shiny objects. She liked to create make believe worlds inside jungles and underneath seas. She always wanted to feel the texture of things whether slimy, rough, or smooth. Molly was not a pristine porcelain doll of a little girl. She was a concoction of her mother's focus and poise and her father's curiosity and edge. The only thing they both gifted her with was creativity which she had coursing through her veins constantly, even when she slept. As she played on the floor, giving the fish voices under her breath, her mother was clicking around on her laptop, deep in her work.

“Your mum's on her way.” Ashton appeared in the doorway, shaking his phone face first towards his wife. Simone's mother had texted them both, but Ashton knew that Simone would be concentrating on work too much to notice any buzzing or beeping from her phone by her side. She could tune out anything except the high pitch screams of her newborn.

“Great.” Simone said automatically before glancing at the time. “She's early. We weren't going to-” She peeled her eyes off of the e-mail she was proofreading and brought them to Ashton with alarm.

“I know.” Coyly, he admitted and then pointed out Molly on the floor between them with a cock of his head. “I wanted a little more time.” He was leaving in a few days, off to California to start press ahead of the first single's release. When he first found himself falling in love and finding more in his life that held promise outside of parties, music, and models, Ashton started to find it hard to go back to his hectic life as a rockstar. When Molly was first born, she was raised by a village of crew and band members, it was simple to stuff her in a Baby Bjorn and wander around the world. Now, he had a firm family and Simone wasn't taking any time off, Ashton felt like he was tearing in two. He was going back to his first love, music, that he had taken a needed rest from, but he was also leaving part of himself behind.

Molly was three and talking to her toy fish, unaware that feet away from her, her father was breaking in two.

Understanding, Simone nodded. She pushed herself away from the glass desk and folded her hands over her lap, watching Ashton as he gazed down at Molly with heavy and evident sadness in his eyes. He was horrible at goodbyes, something that before his daughter he had been almost too good at.

“I can  let my mum in. I'll handle Connor.” He was asleep, but nobody knew how long that would last. He had a set of lungs on him that Ashton was very proud of. The boy didn't keep quiet for very long for anyone, but Simone's parents.

Ashton nodded at Molly and then smacked his hands together, swinging his arms in front of him, for her attention.

“Do you want to go to the park with me?” He asked, trying to be casual and not give her any indication to how emotionally conflicted he currently was.

Feverishly, Molly nodded right away and then climbed up onto her feet. She was ready to go, a thin lipped smile spreading across her face like nutella over fresh toast.

“Put your toys away, okay?” Out of habit, his hand wrestled softly through his mess of hair. “I'll be at the door with your boots and jacket.” He told her without letting her go, his large hand still over the top her head.

“You, me, and dad. We're going to have a little date after, okay?” Simone informed her from her desk, rolling the chair close to the edge again. “So, after the park you'll come back, we'll brush our teeth and hair, we'll go out.” Simone and Ashton had not had isolated time with Molly since Connor was born, but it had been Ashton's idea to do something small and special with her before he left. They were just going to go have pizza together at a little hole in the wall spot Simone loved in Maida Vale where they lived, but to Molly it was as fancy and wonderful as a five-star Grammy's after-party.

With all the excitement she could muster, Molly bounced around as she collected her toys in their proper pail. She tidied up as fast as she could and met her dad at the front door. Just as promised, he was ready to go with her little Burberry coat open in both hands and her red rubber wellies right by her mother's.

“I didn't run because Connor is sleeping.” With a finger in front of her mouth, Molly proudly whispered to her dad. Her tongue slightly tripped over her words, but she spoke well for a toddler. Ashton had to credit that all to Simone who had always spoken to Molly as if she was a petite adult even when she was first born. Ashton had been the one who rubbed his nose into her belly and spoke to her like he didn't know how to pronounce the sound of the letter 'R' or as if he had been raised around Sesame Street.

“That's very nice of you. You're a nice big sister.” He assured her as she turned around and slid her arms clumsily into her coat.

Molly ran out into the hall and carelessly for the elevator doors, Ashton staying back and locking the flat door behind him. Even though Simone was home, he was protective and didn't leave anything to chance. He had cameras in certain rooms of their place that both he  and his wife could check on from their phones. It wasn't because they didn't trust one another and needed to keep tabs on their private lives, but it was out of Ashton's need to be the great protector of his family. When he was away, he hated feeling helpless. He wanted to know what was going on. It was something of a life jacket for him.

“Molly, wait!” He called at her from the door, sensing without looking that she was reaching up to stab the elevator call button. Molly was incredibly well-behaved. She had always followed the rules set out for her without any problem, but she was like any little kid when it came to elevator buttons. She just had to touch them.

Once they were leaving their guarded building, Ashton opened up his hand and Molly instinctively put hers inside of it. His own hand practically engulfed all of her fingers, but Molly didn't notice. She was too busy counting the red buses that passed them as Ashton led her down the same walk they always took. He pointed out the streets to her as they passed each block, asking her to guess. He wanted to know that if they were ever separated, Molly would be able to make her own way home. Blomfield Road came before Randolph Mews then Clarendon Gardens and then Clifton Gardens.

They arrived at the park later than usual. They didn't bring their dog to pull on them and eagerly lead the way. Ashton also paid more attention on quizzing Molly on their surroundings than he usually did on keeping her focused on walking at a regular pace. This time, they walked was as if they were both her size.

Usually, Molly charged through the gates of the park, finally allowed to let go of a parent’s hand, but this time, she squeezed Ashton's hand tighter and didn't let go. Ashton decided not to question it though and just kept strolling with her, on their way to the lake or the playground, taking in the greenery quietly.

“Daddy?” With her head tilted all the way back, Molly looked up and interrupted the soft breeze between them. She could barely feel it while it was right in Ashton's face.

“Hm?” Looking down, Ashton let her know she had his attention before looking forward down the path again.

“Why do you have to...go?” Her bottom lip made her question sound like it splattered as it came out, but Molly's eyes squinted as she asked him sincerely. Ashton thought she was sizing him up, but in reality nobody had deduced that she needed glasses yet.

Ashton was stunned silent though and let out a disappointed sigh that deflated his chest. He tightened his jaw as he wrestled with the truth. Molly was too intuitive to not pick up on what was going on. She heard all the adults around her yammering about the upcoming tour, peppering both her parents with questions about their conflicting schedules. She knew change was afoot whether or not anyone consulted with her about it.

“Well, Molls, my job involves a lot of travelling.” He decided to say, thinking it was a truth that she could comprehend. “I took a little break so I could be at home with you, and mum, and your brother, but I have to go back.”

“When do I... see... you now?” Confused, she kept interviewing.

He wanted to tell her that she could see him whenever she damn well pleased. Ashton strived to be a much better father than he had had. Even though Molly could call and Skype him whenever she wanted to, it didn't feel like enough. Ashton knew that he wasn't going to actually be there to tuck her in, answer her a hundred questions about trees, human bones, and hammerhead sharks, and he wouldn't get to see her growing like a weed right before his eyes. She wouldn't be able to crawl all over him when they were playing on the floor together and she would hear his voice only through the radio or computer now.

“Mum and I have sorted it out. You're going to come visit lots and we're going to take a trip to see Nana Anne in a little bit.” Ashton had been a nightmare for his managers, refusing to go longer than two and a half weeks without a weekend break for him and Simone to meet up, for real chunks of time to catch his breath and be more than just a drummer.

“I'll miss you.” Sounding as sad as his face looked, Molly confidently told him. She knew some things to be facts. Fish swam, birds flew, dolphins were carnivores, and she was going to miss her father.

It was a verbal nudge in the ribs for Ashton and he stopped right away. Rubbing his lips together to hold back another weighted sigh, Ashton bent down to his knees and brought Molly in with both  hands, one of his over each of hers. His fingers held her in place tightly and he gave himself a few seconds to just take her in. Each time he blinked, it was a mental snapshot of her soft features. She was never going to be this little again. He wanted to tell her that he would miss her as well, that he didn't want to leave, that he wished he could fold her like a t-shirt and take her along with him, but before Ashton could sort out his words he noticed her bottom lip begin to warble and her nose squish up. She was on the verge of tears.

With both hands, he pulled her in close and then allowed her fingers to wiggle free so she could wrap them around his neck. Once Molly had the toggles of her peacoat against his sweater clad chest, she crying into his neck. Ashton held the back of her head with a firm hand and breathed her in, her organic shampoo and skin a familiar and comforting scent. He closed his eyes and listened to her cry, feeling like a forlorn jerk.

“It's okay, baby.” He assured her with voice like velvet even if his throat was tightening and beginning to feel like linen inside. He rose from the knees and carried her, letting her sob into his shoulder as he kept them going down their usual path. Molly wasn't the temper tantrum type. He knew she would calm down eventually. When he was feeling as heartbroken as he currently was, he couldn't tell  her to not feel all her emotions. This was going to be something she had to learn to handle for the rest of her life. Some people had routine and solidarity, the Irwin family had distance.

[onlinebusinessreviewsblog]

David Bowie: Map of London locations connected to his life

Online Business Reviews

David Bowie is regarded as one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century.

If he was still alive, he would have turned 74 on January 8, but instead this year marks the fifth anniversary of his death from cancer.

His legacy includes 29 albums, almost as many movies and numerous awards.

He was also born and raised in south east London.

We’ve tracked down some of the locations around the area with important connections to the superstar.

If you want to pay homage to him by visiting these destinations in the future or putting them on your bucket list, here are some of the meaningful places you should look out for when you're there.

40 Stansfield Road, Brixton – Bowie was born David Jones on January 8.

Stockwell Infants' School – Started school at Stockwell Infants in 1951.

106 Canon Road, Bromley – Bowie’s family moved to Canon Road in 1953.

Clarence Road, Bromley – In 1954, his family moved to Clarence Road.

Raglan Infants' School, Clarence Road – David studied here from January 1953 until 1955.

4 Plaistow Grove, Bromley – The family moved to Plaistow Grove in June 1955.

Bowie at the Free Festival, Beckenham, 1969

Burnt Ash Junior School, Rangefield Road –  While at Burnt Ash Junior School from 1955 to 1958, David was in the school choir and played the recorder.

Bromley Technical High School, Oakley Road, Keston –  Now known as Ravens Wood School, a young David studied here from 1958 to 1963 and particularly enjoyed art classes (and gained his only O Level in the subject) under teacher Owen Frampton, the father of rock musician Peter Frampton.

School of Art, Croydon – Bowie briefly studied at School of Art in Croydon (now part of Croydon College) after leaving school.

24 Foxgrove Road, Beckenham – Now known as David Bowie, he moved to Beckenham from Kensington in March 1969 and lodged with Mary Finnigan.

The Three Tuns pub (now Zizzi), Beckenham High Street – Bowie and Finnigan set up a folk club, which later became Beckenham Arts Lab at the Three Tuns in May 1969.

Croydon Road Recreation Ground, Beckenham – Bowie and the Arts Lab hosted the first free festival as a fundraiser at the Croydon Road Recreation Ground on August 16.

January 10 2016 - David Bowie died peacefully today surrounded by his family after a courageous 18 month battle... https://t.co/ENRSiT43Zy

— David Bowie Official (@DavidBowieReal) January 11, 2016

Haddon Hall, 42 Southend Road, Beckenham – Bowie lived on the ground floor of the now-demolished building, between October 1969 and May 1972 when he moved to Maida Vale. He painted the ceilings silver.

Bromley Registry Office, Beckenham Lane – Bowie married Angie on March 19, 1970. They divorced in 1980.

Underhill Studios, Blackheath Hill, Greenwich – Bowie began work on the album that would become The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars in 1971 at Underhill Studios, Greenwich, now Gee-Pharm. 

Avery Hill College, Eltham – Bowie’s legendary Ziggy Stardust tour played Avery Hill College on February 25, 1972

The Greyhound, Park Lane, Croydon – The Ziggy Stardust tour came to Croydon’s Greyhound on June 25, 1972

Fairfield Halls, Croydon – After touring in the US and Europe, the Ziggy Stardust tour played two shows at Fairfield Halls on June 24, 1973. 

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