Scoliosis chimneytasis.
I think I would like to work in that room there.
I watch the closing credits at the end of movies too…
Two fine Penguin Books front covers are overshadowed by their back covers.
Nice, but no cigar.
Disclaimer: Profuselyillustrated does not endorse Greys Cigarettes. Nor Aldous Huxley.
My beautiful nib shirt doesn't fit…
It was only a matter of time. My drip-dry polyester mapping pen nib shirt no longer fits. It does, but I've been advised not to wear it. The chances of finding something with nibs on it is a thousand – no: a million – to one. There's just no call for that type of thing these days.
No Iron. No Starch.
At the modern art gallery…
Photographs: C. Bickford-Smith.
They're just words…
Disintegrating type still holds some meaning.
Private property…
Look at that there…
Some tantalising sign writing on a bleak day.
Super script.
Two fine covers…
Two fine covers from a second hand bookshop, North London. Almost as new: safely stored in a bookcase somewhere for years before ending up on a table in the street, transferred to a brown paper bag, into my backpack and transported by tube to west London and onto another bookshelf.
I have something for you…
Gift bags for friend's children accidentally spell out the name of renowned Australian musician.
What are the chances of that?
I spy with my little eye something…
Careless pictures through a window speeding between Sydney and Brisbane, 34-38 degrees celsius.
