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2008
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November 30th; At Robin's in the countryside, Georgina, his wife, comes back from a couple of days in hospital. By day, I notice two orange tractors parked together near the gate, their front wheels turned the same way like a courting couple unconsciously crossing their legs in the same direction. Everywhere I look there are lots of holes rimmed with heaped soil: sixty or seventy, Robin says. Soon they will get local-species fruit trees planted in them.

November 29th; Finish 'The Weiser Concise Guide to Alchemy' by Brian Cotnoir, a down-to-earth, sensible prelude to the Great Work: what some apparently called 'terrestial astronomy' - the 'astronomy of the seven metals'. Lots of sensible warnings about safety in the lab, some interesting herb stuff, and a choice selection of old engraved diagrams of interlocking cosmic order complete this short breezy primer. Robin & I staple bubblewrap to two of the studio's single-glazed windows after dark, also cutting strips of off-white felt to close draughts round the main doors. The whole room immediately feels warmer.
November 28th; Drive out of town with Robin, breaking off to buy shoes for his daughters in Kecskemet. This involves a wander round a giant Auchan hypermarket where, though I cannot buy any rubber inflateables, a 2 lb 8 oz chunk of basic cheese at ten quid shows someone's doing some inflating. Walking across Robin's garden at night I fall into a hole in the ground. Since he mentioned one new hole at least ten feet deep no-one would be able to get out of unaided, I naturally wonder, while I'm falling into it, if this is the one. It's only a couple of feet down, however. A cold, windy night with a sea of stars: revealing what you might call the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence, if you were so inclined.

November 27th; Breakfast with Gizella. Revisit plastics office. Lunch with Robin & Stojko, followed by afternoon meeting with Robin, Hans, & Amin out at the printers. More MGMT {solid grey triangle}.
November 26th; Visit plastics ladies, see Akos for lesson.

November 25th; In the evening an excellent curry with Rob. He mentions how at the office he arrives early one morning, and is slightly nonplussed when the cleaning woman introduces him in Hungarian to her vacuum cleaner. "He's called Robert too", she explains cheerfully. He relates enjoying the circus when it came to town recently so much he went twice, and tells a sad story about one bent employee over a few years near-bankrupting one of London's most respected musical-instrument shops, in business at least a couple of centuries. An MGMT club track {press the solid grey triangle next to the heart} on the 'earworm' & 'hypemachine' sites.
November 24th; 8am breakfast with Martin at place new to me on Kiraly street which does croissants properly, ie warm, squidgy, and buttery, the same way every bakery in France seems to manage, but no-one anywhere else. He tells me of his adventures in the Ghanaian telecommunications market last week. By night with Mystery Friend 2 for some drinks with his friend Tamas who has theories about girls, and seems to apply them fairly successfully - perhaps someone to learn from. These include the red-versus-black-panties theory, the three-unanswered-phone-calls theory, the crooked-teeth theory, and the late-autumn-early-winter-boyfriend-gap theory. Mystery Friend is worried about a call he got on his mobile earlier this evening: from the unusual noises this might either have been a girl sobbing but saying nothing, or else he might have been phoned up by an air-conditioning unit. Here's an American comedian I haven't seen before: his fairly mellow musings on the Conan O'Brien show, and the slightly harsher stage act that made his name and got him invited onto television.

November 23rd; Breakfast with Bob from Philadelphia, who momentarily describes himself as a bureaucratic barnacle on the ocean-going hull of the US economy. He reminds me of the Dangerous Part of Philly anecdote. Bob is looking at charming old buildings in a run-down part of the city of brotherly love a few years back, when an agitated black girl sprints down the street towards him and stops right in his face. "You The Man?" she desperately demands. Bob quickly weighs up the dangers of being The Man against the dangers of not being The Man, then nervously shakes his head and says no. "I need The Man." she says grimly, and legs it off down the street. To Bob's relief, no axe-wielding pimp hoves into view before he is able to hastily get himself out of the district. As our breakfast continues he shows me two Persian carpets he has bought in Budapest markets this weekend, unrolling them on the cafe floor. He will probably trade the larger one with an old dealer friend in Vienna for something more portable to get back to Pennsylvania. We part as he takes the tram to catch his train to Vienna to do a few days of teaching marketing in Austria. Delicious lunch at Franc's. While wearing his puffin-lookalike oven mitts to do some food preparation, Franc explains why American universities dominate world sprinting, but not longer distances. He tells me an extraordinary quote from a Czech runner called Zatopek, who, when asked how he managed to fight exhaustion over long, gruelling runs, replied "I tired tiredness."
November 22nd; Dinner with Eva P, who tells me about a chain of restaurants in Spain called 'The Argentinian Cow', and explains some of the Spanish property bubble. Out late with Martin & friends, bumping into Clemence, who now works at a local United Nations office. Fail to meet Bob, but some cavorting and revelry at various hepcat locations. Rich graphics site.

November 21st; Lunch with Mystery Friend 2, where I bump into Orsi from the Vista days - as demure as ever, she is working at Castro's now. MF2 & I chat about psychology. Visit the two chatty old biddies with wrist-mounted pin cushions for shirt fitting, and then drop in on two other helpful ladies at the industrial plastics place on Izabella street Robin took me to. Together we discuss three possible light, strong materials, including one they show me that is 1/8th of an inch thick, appears to weigh less than a pound a square foot, and seems to be supernaturally strong - I cannot even get close to being able to bend a sample. It is a new composite material they got in from Germany that afternoon that they have not even decided their retail price for yet. Visually, I am more taken though by a sheet of transparent square plastic channels, effectively a bonded layer of tiny box girders in see-through PVC. Finally meet Bob in the evening, tired from his travels. After admiring my flat, he & I repair to the Turkish [or is it Kurdish?] place round the corner for a warming snack at around 9pm.
November 20th; Thursday. Getting serious about building a bookcase again, I set off for the nearby home-improvements discount warehouse, OBI - a retailer whose style tone is set by its orange-overalled German cartoon beaver mascot thing. I have been here before. Looking around at the limited choice of lengths of wood, I realise I need to sit down over a cup of tea and redo my calculations. In a handy teashop outlet just past check-out I ask about some cakes I see behind the counter.
I : Good afternoon! What kind of cakes are those, please?
Assistant : They're cakes.
I : Aha! So what kind of cakes are they?
Assistant : They're cakes.
I : Right. So... what k-i-n-d of cakes?
Assistant : Honey and walnut or chocolate.
I : Thank you. The honey and walnut please.
Assistant : So the chocolate cake then?
For the record, the [honey and walnut] cake is delicious, and the tea very reasonable. I go back in, get the man at the sawing desk to reluctantly agree to cut a board up into smaller pieces. What are these? he asks where I have written numbers with "mm" afterwards. I say they are sizes in millimetres. No, no, he says irritably, I need the sizes of the pieces. I repeat that they are sizes in millimetres. No, no, in centimetres, he wearily explains to me with the sorely tried patience shop staff here use when patronising customers. I rewrite 833 as 83.3 and 250 as 25 and write "cm" after them. He looks down at my piece of paper and sighs despairingly at my continued stupidity. What's that then? he asks me waving his hand at what I've written. Those are the sizes in centimetres that you asked me for, I respond, staying calm [after years of practice]. He makes tutting noises, remarks that "cm" can be an abbreviation for other things, and rewrites what I have written as 25,0 cm and 83,3 cm. Silly me. I forgot it's a decimal comma here. You probably think I make all this stuff up, don't you? Or that I speak Hungarian with an incomprehensible foreign accent, because surely no nation could really behave like this on a daily basis? He warns me there will be an inaccuracy of a few millimetres - I say fine, no problem. He tells me to come back two hours later. I come back more than two hours later, and he has not done the job. You see, I warned you, he starts off, that these sizes won't be exact because of the blade. We won't be able to do it, you know? I reassure him that, honestly, there is some leeway, and I fully understand it won't be perfect. He insists on bringing the circular blade to show me that it is at least three millimetres thick itself, and I say fine, really, I trust him to do the best job he can, absolute precision is really not so important, please don't worry. Then I leave him to it, walk around the store for another fifteen minutes, enjoying a Bjork song on the in-warehouse radio, and being pleasantly startled by a stack of folding ladders with the wood all stained an intense, lemon yellow. I get back and he has cut the board perfectly well into 15 identical rectangles, exactly as I wanted, all with beautifully clean edges. I'm reminded of Annabel's remark about preferring to work with Hungarians than Slavs because Slavs start off saying they are your lifelong friend and anything is possible and then everything goes wrong, whereas Hungarians start off totally negative, protesting the job is impossible, but, if carefully and patiently coaxed, will finally do the work, and it will in fact not be that bad at all.
Carrying the slabs of resin board home on the tram, 7 under one arm, 8 under the other arm, I realise I have been hugely stupid myself. These will just be the shelves. The same weight again would be the structure. I am proposing to make a bookcase that will weigh like something cut out of rock. After staggering home, arms and hands in some pain, I place the wannabee shelves on my floor to get an idea of scale and further realise that 1. the structure might well not be strong enough for its own weight, and 2. though mounted on wheels, this bookcase I intended to be easily transportable will not fit into the lift that is eight feet from my front door, and that I could easily have measured before starting out this afternoon. I go in the lift with a ruler to check, and the answer is that, sure enough, my structurally unsound design is almost a foot too long. For 5 minutes I toy with redesigning something smaller and then think, no. I must find a lighter, stronger material: something completely different.

November 19th; Wednesday. Jim & I meet at the gym along with Gordon, and we do a fairly light session since we all feel a bit feeble. I show Jim the article I read yesterday in one of the Hungarian women's fitness magazines lying around near the exercise bicycles. This article explains a book written by an American woman, a former mannequin, about handling men as if we are dogs. Be kind but firm, reward him for compliance, show him who's in charge right from the start, and so on. What's amusing is most Hungarian girls don't need telling this - they already seem quite set on trying to obedience-train men - yet as a nation they are atrocious at training dogs. Four days in a row instructing a puppy is more discipline than most Hungarians are capable of, which is why the streets are full of angry locals tugging on leashes and snarling at their untrained hounds. Perhaps there's room for a Hungarian book showing women how they could at least succeed at something - training a dog - by using on their pets what clearly doesn't work on their men. Back to the Chinese market past Orczy square again, this time with more success. Yesterday, following Jim's instructions to go straight on at Orczy square, I double-checked with a Hungarian petrol-station attendant. I asked him if I was going the right way for the Chinese market, and a strange, chuckly smile oozed onto his plump little face. No, no, he explained affectionately, the "Josephtown market", he corrected me, was up to Orczy square and then left for about five minutes. I wondered if the Chinese market and the Josephtown market were the same thing, but said nothing. Instead I asked if I was ten minutes' walk away and he positively beamed as if he were about to cuddle me, the way some people do here when they think they are being cleverly sly, saying Oh yes, easily ten minutes even at a gentle stroll - don't forget to turn left at Orczy square! As I walked on he was watching me, still smiling, twinkly-eyed. I got to Orczy square a hundred yards on, and found a Chinese woman with a baby. I asked her if the Chinese market was to the left? No, straight on, she said, one tramstop, with the frank blank look of someone who would never even think of trying to lie about something so trivial. Doubtless, the man at the petrol station had taken it into his head that he was doing something patriotic by diverting me from the filthy chink immigrant shanty town and sending me to the proper higher-priced Hungarian market instead. One tram stop straight on it was. Along the left of the road is a quarter-mile stretch of bustling stalls. This Chinese market is a grid of about twenty alleyways covering an acre or two - perhaps the equivalent of a mediaeval market town in England, something like the centre of Lincoln or Shrewsbury in size. Just one of these Chinese markets is doing more business than the whole of Budapest city centre put together. This is because the Chinese retailers are not pathologically greedy, and charge realistically low prices. Therefore Budapest's shopping plazas and high streets are all but empty of customers while the Chinese markets are packed all week long. About half to two thirds of the stalls and shops seem to be manned by Chinese, with the rest evenly divided between Vietnamese, a few Hungarians [though they might be employees of Chinese owners], and a small scattering of former Soviet Asians. On the right side of the road is a similar length of barrack-type warehousy buildings adapted into spartan but clean shops, plus stores upstairs. For a moment I drink in the intoxicating atmosphere, so unusual in this city, of shop staff actually moving around, some of them even working, hauling boxes, cleaning things, then I head into the supermarket I've been sent to for a herb that supposedly boosts your immune system. Using the Chinese ideograms I've scribbled in my notebook, a shop assistant quickly finds it for me, a neat bagful of woody slivers of sliced root. I retreat from the puzzled stares of the Chinese supermarket assistants, part-shy, part-suspicious, part-tired, and walk back into town. I get the pack home and try chewing some. It tastes a bit like fresh liquorice root.
At night I finish the book '5-minute NLP' by Carolyn Boyes, though she doesn't even get her name on the cover or spine, because this is a handy pocket-sized book in the Collins gem series. Though NLP uses quite a lot of offputting jargon, like 'calibrating' [this seems to mean 'noting carefully'], 'anchors', and 'swish patterns', it looks very useful. NLP [neuro-linguistic programming] seems to be a set of techniques for noticing, breaking, and remaking habits - especially habits of thought that shape how you see yourself and the world. Obviously this stuff has to be practised, but it is refreshingly straightforward and practical in tone. It looks like it really does make changing yourself easier for everyone.
November 18th; Tuesday. After dark, try to pull some money out of the wall, confronted by more highly-paid people's thickness. Card goes in, and then four stages - 1. What language? 2. enter PIN 3. What service? 4. How much money? - before we get to the bit where it explains this machine cannot take my particular kind of card, which of course could have come before all four of those requests. Extraordinary. Not just one person, but several people signed off on that piece of self-evidently shoddy design. Are none of them embarrassed? As if. Dinner at Franc's. I use his gimlet to work on papier mache project while his spherical cat waddles around in the background and we drink some excellent red wine. As we chat, he starts to get transatlantic text messages from Paula in a Manhattan post office believing he has sent her something which has not arrived. We contemplate teasing her by texting back worried questions about the valuable "package" she thinks is missing. Leaving his place around midnight I get on the usual night bus which starts its journey, as always, with paying passengers [4] outnumbered by overweight ticket inspectors [only 6 tonight]. Night crisp & genuinely chilly.

November 17th; Monday. Get up early for landlady's son. He & I carry my ugly wooden cot bed down to the cellar together. A typical communist object, it opens on hinges for no good reason, and is heavy, impractical, & fragile. Looking online for inflateables, I find this page.
November 16th; Sunday. Clear my desk and tidy my table. Am directed to this creepy television advert that says that appearances are what govern life. Worryingly convincing.

November 15th; Saturday. Ethnography Judit takes me to a trendy little tea house, which involves clambering around on carpeted platforms with music from the likes of Supergrass playing softly in the background. She tells me about a good novel she is reading in Swedish.
November 14th; Friday. Spend day doing whatever it is I do with my time these days. Not sure what that is any more, to be honest. Last night put ad in local Russian-language newspaper.

November 13th; Sleep right through morning appointment, but meet Jim instead at 3pm for my first gym session for perhaps a month. The credit crunch is already affecting sales of Jim's paintings. Over tea afterwards meet his friend, Football Steve. Jim gives me directions for a Chinese market near my flat, and they are discussing line-ups of the football team on a piece of paper as I leave.
November 12th; Slow, late-morning idleness eating pastries and drinking coffee & tea with Politics Judit at the patisserie behind the yellow church. Extensive gossip before we retire to another nearby cafe for the actual Tarot reading.

November 11th; Take train to Manchester early to catch midday flight to Budapest. Start to feel better once I am inside airport. Dark in Budapest as we land. In bus from Budapest airport heading for town I finish an interesting book called 'The World Without Us' by Alan Weisman. Weisman looks at how quickly various human structures like cities, petrochemical complexes, dams, canals, farms would revert to the wild if people disappeared tomorrow. There are fascinating accounts of the wilderness now filling the no man's lands between North and South Korea, between Turkish Cyprus and Greek Cyprus, and around the abandoned nuclear power station at Chernobyl. Within a surprisingly short time, trees start to grow through buildings and roads, various wild animals return, and so on. Intriguingly, he says stone buildings and bronze sculptures might last longer than any modern, high-tech objects [apart from the hated plastics, of course]. Weisman moves from curiosity towards the eco-nihilism familiar to readers of James Lovelock and more particularly David Benatar, concluding that if people disappeared overnight, it would be good, because lots of beautiful animals we are driving to extinction could revive and thrive. The "exhausted" earth could begin to "recover" from the "burden" of supporting humankind. He's American, so we have to read thumbnail sketches of each biologist or engineer he speaks to. He seems obsessed with greying hair: he tells us lots of experts fall into the fifty-but-no-grey-hair-yet category. In one moronic passage near the end, Weisman suggests a one-woman-one-child policy for the whole planet, and applauds how quickly this would force human population down to "sustainable" levels. He seems to have never given a second's thought to asking why it is that only a country as fascistic as China ever tried such a policy, a policy it will be paying dearly for through decades of demographic imbalance to come - as if it could ever be enforced anywhere else. How long before this kind of anti-human thinking spawns a full-on terrorist movement? At least on page 197 he quotes zoologists Temple and Coleman on how cats often kill for sheer fun, and spares us the Rousseau-esque Lorenzian Deep Green delusion that only humans kill or destroy pointlessly. Would have been nice to see him refer to the interesting picture book from the 1990s called 'After Man', which tried to illustrate how some animals might evolve to fill ecological niches a modest 50 million years after we go. It was done deadpan, with full-page colour sketches of the type in natural-history books. I recall a very convincing drawing of a tree-climbing dog that had evolved long, sloth-like, curving claws. After I finish Weisman's elegy to a non-human future, I revert to looking out of the number 93 bus windows at the suburbs of southern Pest by night. I've inadvertently got on the bus taking the long, scenic route through lots of streets which are still part suburb, part village. Something like a full moon has followed me all the way from Yorkshire. As I gaze at lights of small, dumpy shops and quiet people wrapped in bulky coats, engrossed in their lives, a thought about rotational symmetry twinkles tantalisingly half out of reach in my head. Not forcing it, I wait. In sudden calm it clicks into place quietly but firmly, like a final jigsaw piece or Lego brick.
November 10th; Sleep late in Yorkshire. Open a court summons, four days hence, for not paying my council tax, which I thought I was exempt from. Several people I spoke to at the council last year had told me solemnly that "of course" they would keep in touch with me by e-mail, which of course they didn't. I phone up and pay the ransom.

November 9th; Breakfast with Paris before he sets off to his dying aunt's hospice. I get to King's Cross, and catch my train to The Village. This is in fact three trains and a bus. Due to repairs on a Sunday, our train goes London to Grantham. There we have a bit of rain to keep us from getting too comfortable. Then a bus takes us from Grantham to Newgate. Then another train to Leeds. Then a train to Mytholmroyd. In Yorkshire there is more unnecessary rain and darkness. The house is waiting for me, still smelling of dog, still full of heartbreaking clutter, still there to be cleared.
November 8th; Early to airport for long weekend in England. On aeroplane find myself sitting next to buoyant Bella from Nyiregyhaza. As her phone is not working well, we take the coach together from Luton into London and have a green tea with her friend Nikoletta when we at last find her in the vastness of Victoria station. Later I make it to ParisinLondon's house, an hour late, due to me forgetting that London is big and text messages don't work in underground stations here. Paris is exhausted, due to the imminent death of his much-loved Swiss aunt. He is at the hospice each day all day. They were only told a week ago that she had cancer and will die any day now. I go to Karis's party around midnight and find it impressively packed with people dressed as rakes or reformers. I go as a vicar and people look at me oddly on the bus there and back - perhaps my dog collar and respectable casual outfit looks just a tad too convincing. Karis is much more spectacular in a cinching red corset, much decolletage, dramatic make-up, and a wonderful toy knife with retractable blade pinned invitingly close to one breast. A loyal friend of hers chides me crossly for not knowing that our hostess is very clever and works at a "hot-shot law firm". In another room we are wedged almost to a standstill by revellers. A very pretty girl yells ecstatically at someone by my head "God, fucking Hannah's here! Oh fuck!!" She is extremely excited that Hannah is there. I chat with a couple of fellow men of the cloth. The whole party has quite an Oxford feel to it. This could almost be a scene in a 1920s Waugh novel - nearly 100 years ago now. I get back to Turnpike Lane to find Paris asleep on his sofa in front of his widescreen television, where something BBC about romantic heroines in literature is on for the 2nd time this evening.

November 7th; To Martin's in the evening, where we watch the early 90s film 'Bob Roberts' on DVD. Though slightly earnest, the film is a worryingly convincing comic portrayal of how politics works in the US. The maker, an admirer of the spoof documentary 'Spinal Tap', has had to yield to the literalness of American life, and explain his jokes as the film goes on. Otherwise, American audiences wouldn't have got them. Some clever moments, nonetheless. An uncanny foreglimpse of the right-wing folksiness of the younger George Bush.
November 6th; Sleep late. Oddly warm weather for November continues. The Nigel of Light sends me this amusing story. No2id campaigners have obtained Britain's Home Secretary's fingerprints and, we must hope, her DNA as well, off a drinking glass. Appropriately this appears on Guido Fawkes' weblog just the morning after his special day. The plan is to mass-produce stamps or gloves enabling lots of people to leave Jacqui Smith's fingerprints wherever they wish, following the bold lead of some German hackers. The Germans already did this March. They showed the stupidity of Interior Minister Wolfgang Schauble and his biometric identity database by publishing his index-finger print in a magazine. Each copy of the magazine included a free gift of a rubber version of his fingerprint enabling anyone to fool a biometric scanner into thinking Wolfgang is everywhere.
Big Mojo track 'Downside Away Blues'. Bongo Man version of dance number 'Mojo Tribe'.

November 5th; No Guy Fawkes Night here on the Continent, of course, since almost the whole place is given over to popish knavery anyway. US presidency and vice-presidency go to Godless believers in evolution in the small hours. Concrete shells of buildings now rising rapidly in the nearby building site, which has been a massive pit full of cranes [presumably making deep foundations] for over a year. In the last couple of weeks, 3 or 4 storeys of cement walls have sprung up with oblong holes where windows will be. The 19th-century four-storey building taller than it is wide, rendered in mint green with one sad general grocer in its ground floor, no longer stands alone in an empty space like a good tooth in a hollow mouth. With four floors of bare cement on one side and two storeys of stacked Portakabin/prefab site offices on the other, it now increasingly looks like a good tooth surrounded by cheap dentures. Mystery Friend 1 pops up on the Skype text chat in the afternoon. Late night drinking and eating out on the town with Mystery Friend 2.
November 4th; Surprisingly easily, phone another post office, and track down my parcel from the US. Take tram 28 out there to pick it up. The same place I visited with Ilan a year or so ago. Back in flat, rewatch famous 'mindlock' scene in THX1138, with the humans toiling away in front of monitors, plus Lucas' original film-school version, only 15 minutes long, all with lots of Apollo-Mission-style crackly voice-overs intoning numbers. Suddenly occurs to me I have been, of my own free will, sitting in front of a glowing screen for several hours, watching numbers in several separate browser windows, pressing buttons, moving between tasks in step with the machine. After dark, due to a misunderstanding, fail to meet Nora in Buda, but bump into Ilan down on the underground metro platform. Perky as ever, he tries to push me under an underground train to see if I react. I react.

November 3rd; Go with Robin to printers, where we meet Istvan the printer, who seems so cheerful we suspect he sleeps under the machines in the screen-printing room with the intoxicating, dizzying ink smell. Afterwards we dine at the pizzeria Pauline showed me, then I trek to the post office to try to track down my package from the US. At 2 in the morning, I get a message from Martin online, and we meet for a beer round the corner. He tells me about Lee Atwater, who inspired Karl Rove, and Atwater's end-of-life change of heart, renouncing all he did for the Republican party as devious and wrong once he found he was dying of cancer.
November 2nd; Bright, warm sun around lunchtime fades into another smoky, autumn dusk on the Great Plain. Robin describes a dream last night in which he, I, and his friend Clive owned a train which we were driving at night and trying to pull into a siding with the help of a friendly Hungarian railway controller. Some hunters pass through the village shooting things, and he reports finding deer, pheasants, and rabbits all taking shelter down at the pond. As darkness falls, we take the two girls back to boarding school in Kecskemet and drive on to Budapest.

November 1st; Quiet day in the countryside. A little bit of wood-chopping, like yesterday. As dusk falls and light fails in the studio, Robin finds the spare bulb for the intense stage lamp that burned out last night. Georgina makes pancakes for supper. Last night in the studio, when Robin went to bed leaving the radio on, it played an eerie choral piece by a Polish composer. Ethereal voices stream out of the barn shadows into the one big light next to me. The voices seem to urge the wax tablet on to completion in the small hours as I gently melt, recongeal, and remelt the surface under the powerfully hot lamp. The bulb fails around 3am when the saints are fused into the surface at just the right depth, and I measure the biscuit tin with Robin's spirit level and leave it to cool.

Mark Griffith, site administrator / markgriffith @ yahoo.com

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