In the winter a slightly odd phenomenon sometimes happens when I do the rather mundane task of doing the washing up. When its cold outside and I fill the bowl with hot water steam produces tiny water drops all over the bar of soap on my window sill. I’ve normally only seen this at night but a few times I’ve found its happened late in the day. Tonight it was light enough to get a few photographs before the drops succumbed to gravity and ran into the soap dish.

The other day my old clockwork kitchen timer broke so I went to buy a new one.  Now in our topsy-turvy post Woolworths age the simple mechanical timer seems to have become an expensive , luxury item so I ended up with a Heston Blumenthal battery powered model that also doubles as a clock.  I picked it because I liked the look and it was the cheapest one I’d found.  On opening it I found a tiny sheet of instructions and a large sheet that makes me think someone is still running the Heston Blumenthal joke.  The guarantee makes it clear that the timer is for “Domestic Use Only”.  Yet the other sheet is headed “Electromagnetic Compatibility” and provides detailed warnings about factors that electromagnetic instruments may influence the timer or cause it to temporarily malfunction.  Which could obviously be a serious risk if trying to precisely boil your egg for the 416 seconds required for the perfect firmer, more creamy yolk with a completely set white.

I’ve seen quite a few similar photographs to the one above on newspaper websites. I decided to take a closer look because the level of detail in the work is really excellent and deserves to be shown off.

If you want to see it for yourself its at 84–86 Duke Street.

View Between, Liverpool Biennial 2010 in a larger map

No stop it.

I don’t normally comment on such things.  I’m a gentleman who keeps such thought private while others utter them without the aid of a quantity of strong drink.

Stay with me a little there is a point to all this.  It might even relate to tonight’s entertainment by the extraordinary Mr Stephen Fry.

It belonged to a young lady (the bottom that is) and was clad in tight white jeans and it was moving at speed through, appropriately, the Power Hall at the Science Museum.  I suspect she was in some way involved in the private event in the area of the museum that was closed.

The thing about the arse in question is that it was tight, pert, perfectly formed and had two exceptional halves.

That is also a good description of Mr Fry’s show.

It had other qualities.  It was quite clearly structural.  The young lady in question reminded me of a Radio Four Afternoon Play I heard while holidaying in my teenage years in Yorkshire.  An architect told the story in the first person.  He described his lover in terms of elements of classical architecture.  In this case her legs, like Corinthian columns, were connected to her finely tapered torso by the ornate capital that was her arse.

While a slightly wandering (although not Corbutesque) monologue the evening’s entertainment was similarly well structured.  There were anecdotes, answers to questions, personal insights and jokes.  There were impressions and a hint of technology without slipping into modern, ancient or Koine Geek.  His beta software didn’t crash embarrisingly.

There was laughter.  I’ve been struck on this trip to London how laughter can be so varied.  I’ll come back to that in another post.  I’m wandering away from the main point (if well muscled twin hemispheres can be a point) which isn’t really the very exception glutæus maximus anyway.

Meandering even further from the arse briefly I must comment on the footwear.  Good footwear is important.  It acts as a sound foundation for the support of the legs and on up to the…

Now really do I have to tell you again?

…top of the head.  It can also encourage the arse to wiggle in a most pleasing manor.  The young lady in question had a rather fine pair of black, or possibly extraordinarily dark brown, patent leather boots with unexceptional heals and turnovers at the top.  Maybe a hint of the pirate about them.  Or more than a month of my salary.

Mr Fry’s show had similarly well prepared footwear.  The lighting was simple, tasteful and focused the eye on the stage.  At first I thought the screens might be a little small but I realised they were in fact perfectly choosen to supplement his performance rather than replace it.  The choice of (I think) mostly ‘50s music before and during the interval between part A and part 2 put a little swing into the proceedings.  The quality of the audio throughout was pleasing on the ear.  I feel it’s important to mention such things having been to concerts ruined by a sound system, to strain the analogy well past the point of good manners, consisting of a single, broken down, flip flop and a high heeled wellington boot caught in a crack in the paving of acoustical amplification.

Now the arse (there I’ve used the word three five times in one post which is five times more than the proceeding thousand and something posts on Too Many Ideas) may have been clad in perfect, tight, white jeans but it had hidden depths.

No really stop it.  Don’t make me delete this post because you can’t behave.

That white fabric was of such a fine weave that it was absolutely clear that something black was under it.  Not some sort of indiscreet thong above the waist or visible fabric line.  No this was a black something that may well have begun at the neck and gone all the way down into the boots.  If it did I hope she didn’t need to make too many trips to the toilet on work time.  It may have been in two pieces.  My apologies I was distracted by the demonstration of complex oscillations.  Quite possibly it would have been more appropriate on the third floor in amongst the machines for examining harmonic motion.

And yes (and I’m not going to apologise for starting a paragraph with an and) Mr Fry’s talk had hidden depths.  There were moments of poignancy and his thoughts on Wilde were an excellent (almost) end to the show.  The fine white weave of light humour and a rather funny short story covered another layer, that was not dark but simply not what I was necessarily expecting of the evening.

Now I didn’t want to give too much of the excellent evening’s entertainment away.  I don’t know how much of the upcoming shows will be similar or if there will be a future broadcast, DVD or wax cylinder release that I could spoil.   Hopefully my comparison of a rather extraordinarily sublime arse and Mr Fry’s fun little talk will suffice.  I could certainly have watched either of them for significantly longer than the duration of the show provided.

As always (at least when I remember) a quick one line summary: Mr Stephen Fry’s one man show is a wonderful way to spend an evening.

Oh and if the lady in question should by some strange twist of fate see this: my apologies, this really is a moment of madness and poor taste. But good grief you do have an exceptional behind.  How many hours of step do you do to keep it in such fine shape?

I had this Mackerel from M&S for my dinner.  Having not cooked Mackerel before I checked the instructions.  I couldn’t help noticing the information on the back…

I know they have to be complete but I’d be more worried if Mackerel didn’t contain fish.

Still it was very nice and I’m sure if they had the packet information read out by Dervla Kirwan I’d completely miss any mistakes, omissions or amusing details

I’ve walked past this sign several times but the other day a thought popped into my head “How do you check the gender of a sunbed?”.  Enquiring minds need to know.

Brian Cox or Ernest Borgnine would push this into my want to see list.

Helen Mirren flower arranging is a bit a bit Calendar Girls. Helen Mirren with a machine gun? Helen Mirren with a Machine Gun! Ok I’m buying this. Heading into not just the danger zone but Hot Fuzz territory.  I don’t care about the reviews.

Then they ice a rather fruit looking cake with Mary-Louise Parker who was both funny and smart in the West Wing.  Tasty.

Looks like REDs at least one must see film in October.

This sign is on the boards which cover the ground floor of an empty building a short distance from where I work. Whenever I walk past it amuse me in the same way that a sign on the side entrance to Wollaton Park in Nottingham amused me in my youth. It read simply “Escaping Dear Please Close the Gate”.

Wellington's Column Liverpool

Every work day I pass Wellington’s Column (or the Waterloo Memorial) on the corner of William Brown Street and Lime Street in Liverpool.

I think I may have spent too much time at work using Google Analytics and playing with numbers this week…

The following fact has absolutely no practical value I can think of…

On the first five days of March a seagull was stood on Wellington’s head four days out of five when I went past in the morning.