Flint and moth
An excellent day. Did some business-type stuff this morning, then talked to Mum at some length about a wheeze we are working on together which mainly involves her doing some painting while I spin idly around in my chair.
Also during the morning I sent the pictures of the flint scraper to the local museum, and was invited round to show them, as the Booth Museum is only a short walk away from where I live.
Mad place, featuring the collection of one Edward Thomas Booth, whose blatant ambition was to slaughter and stuff every last species of British Bird. Fine examples, as the museum would have it, of The Victorian Art of Taxidermy. A quirky and fascinating place, and well worth a visit.
So I walked past all the baleful cases of dead birds, to have a conversation with a bearded man called Jeremy. Stifling a yabadabadoo! I held out my stone age scraper. Sadly, after peering keenly at this artifact with his magnifier, he said it was a piece of flint.
Although perfectly shaped for a scraper it didn't have the tell-tale scallopy chip marks from either side of the edge to show that it had been worked, nor had it any other signs that it had been hammered or shaped. Very interesting to talk to him, however. He said it was a pity I hadn't been there last week as there were some real stone age finds brought in. Still, nevertheless, I will keep my flint as a curio. He didn't want to comment on the hair-like stuff but didn't think it was significant.
I then had a longish wander through the museum, peering in at flocks of stuffed birds, all set in dioramas that recreate their natural environments. Then I was stopped in my tracks by their extensive collection of butterflies and moths, all pinned in ranks in big cases.
I have written at least two poems that have a museum setting, but never successfully. However today, staring at the display of moths, a penny dropped and I made a few notes and hurried across to the cafe in the park opposite. There I had a cup of tea, avoiding an older man who was singing a bizarre pop song and trying to talk to me, and cracked out the first draft of a new poem.
I am delighted with this and it could be the best thing I have written all year. After walking home, I worked on this for most of the remainder of the day, pausing to watch my new favourite TV show (Scrubs), and talk to Lorraine and First Matie on the phone.
Below some appalled-looking stuffed birds and a photo of death's head hawk moth (stolen from this excellent site on UK moths). Apparently the French believed that dust from one of these moths could blind you.
Also during the morning I sent the pictures of the flint scraper to the local museum, and was invited round to show them, as the Booth Museum is only a short walk away from where I live.
Mad place, featuring the collection of one Edward Thomas Booth, whose blatant ambition was to slaughter and stuff every last species of British Bird. Fine examples, as the museum would have it, of The Victorian Art of Taxidermy. A quirky and fascinating place, and well worth a visit.
So I walked past all the baleful cases of dead birds, to have a conversation with a bearded man called Jeremy. Stifling a yabadabadoo! I held out my stone age scraper. Sadly, after peering keenly at this artifact with his magnifier, he said it was a piece of flint.
Although perfectly shaped for a scraper it didn't have the tell-tale scallopy chip marks from either side of the edge to show that it had been worked, nor had it any other signs that it had been hammered or shaped. Very interesting to talk to him, however. He said it was a pity I hadn't been there last week as there were some real stone age finds brought in. Still, nevertheless, I will keep my flint as a curio. He didn't want to comment on the hair-like stuff but didn't think it was significant.
I then had a longish wander through the museum, peering in at flocks of stuffed birds, all set in dioramas that recreate their natural environments. Then I was stopped in my tracks by their extensive collection of butterflies and moths, all pinned in ranks in big cases.
I have written at least two poems that have a museum setting, but never successfully. However today, staring at the display of moths, a penny dropped and I made a few notes and hurried across to the cafe in the park opposite. There I had a cup of tea, avoiding an older man who was singing a bizarre pop song and trying to talk to me, and cracked out the first draft of a new poem.
I am delighted with this and it could be the best thing I have written all year. After walking home, I worked on this for most of the remainder of the day, pausing to watch my new favourite TV show (Scrubs), and talk to Lorraine and First Matie on the phone.
Below some appalled-looking stuffed birds and a photo of death's head hawk moth (stolen from this excellent site on UK moths). Apparently the French believed that dust from one of these moths could blind you.
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