Demolition of the old office

Another shoddy cameraphone snap of the old building. This is from the north side of Fenchurch St, looking south east.

Excitingly, and rather precariously, the whole of the mezzanine level has been demolished, just leaving floors 3 and upward hanging from the central core, which you can now see exposed. Glass has gone up to the 5th floor.

Even though I still know why the building has to be demolished like this, it still just looks wrong.

BONUS UPDATE!

Here’s a view of the south east corner of the building, showing the underside of the third floor, and the precarious nature of the whole affair.

News haikus

All the news you need.
Conveniently written,
In brief haiku form.

An open letter to the girl who pulled out of buying my flat

“Because daddy didn’t want me living on my own,” is a piss-poor excuse. Maybe it’s something that you should have considered before offering to buy my flat in the first place. Maybe you could have told me and my girlfriend before we went out and put an offer on a house ourselves.

I hope that you keep daddy company until you’re in your mid-50s. After that, I’m sure your 78 cats will keep you safe.

Slutty dumplings

A picture from the specials board in the Pavilion End, Watling St.

I’m not quite sure what it’s selling, but part of me would like to see if it’s a typo or not…

The down-side of owning a Mini

I own one of the new Minis. A beautiful British Racing Green Cooper S with a white roof, and white bonnet stripes. I don’t think it’s any great exaggeration to say that I love my Mini. I like to think that if it could express emotions, my Mini would love me. All in all, it’s a great man-car relationship. Given even half a chance, I’ll happily orate to anyone in earshot the glory of its acceleration, the sound of the whine from the supercharger, or its shit-to-a-footballer’s-knee road-holding.

Today, though, I experienced my first less-than-100% experience with the car. After leaving rugby practice, and on walking back out to the car park, a friend called out to me, asking if I’d brought my car or not. Before I even knew that I said it, I’d blurted out “Yes – it’s over there, hidden by the Vauxhall Corsa.” Dammit.

Arsenal ’til I die

Although not a fan of soccerball per se, I recently visited West Highbury with my brother to watch the Woolwich Arsenal play.  Whilst enjoying the match in between naps, I noticed a number of people sporting shirts proudly emblazoned with the motto “Arsenal till I die”. Although I immediately accepted the spelling mistake as nothing more than a typo, this set my mind wandering—an all-too-easy thing to happen during a football match.  While the wearer is no doubt displaying an admirable loyalty to his chosen club in life, I can only assume that he has therefore given tacit approval to be buried in a Tottenham kit.

Although it doesn’t scan quite as well, perhaps a more loophole-free shirt would read “Arsenal up to and including the moment of my interment.”

However, this leaves the door open somewhat to misinterpretation, so some small print necessitates itself.

“Although interment is mentioned specifically, I will be as fond of Arsenal FC in the event of my cremation, burial at sea, or appropriation by Gunter von Hagens. The value of football clubs may go down as well as up. Your stadium is at risk if you do not keep up repayments on a mortgage or other loan secured upon it.”

I think we’ll all agree that this completely obviates any risk of  improper burial clothes, in a catchy manner, perfectly capable of holding its own on the streets.