Adventures in urban living

Thi smorning there was a film crew in the main square- people standing around looking bored, oodles of huge lights, reflectors, several cameras. All pointing in through the windows of a chippy. It clearly wasn't a "crime strikes the heart of our cities" report because a) too many people, not just a reporter and a camera b) no police or crime scene tape c) it was full of people eating. I wonder if I'll ever see what it was for? (Probably not).

There's a fairly attractive old cinema building I walk past every day that's scheduled to be knocked down- to be replaced with something ugly and unnecessary, I expect- and there's been a terribly polite protest with people hugging it and writing messages on the walls in chalk. Among the many "We love the Odeon" and "The Beatles were here" and "Sack the Mayor" ones, somebody has put "I was conceived here".

Reading a Sarah Caudwell, The Sybil In Her Grave- I do like the tone of these, reminiscent of Michael Innes or Colin Watson or A. J. Hall. This one's partly epistolatory, which is fun. So far a blackmailing fortune-teller with a pet vulture has died amid suspicons of insider dealing. (I love self-satisfied narrators, and Hilary Tamar is beautifully stuffy.)