It seems to be springtime here in London - or at least trying to be: the temperature is somewhere around freezing. No point in pretending that iPhone flash photos are any good, for the most part - but, efficient though I was in every other respect, I haven't yet found where I put the little thingy for photo-card downloading, if I brought it at all. But rather than forgo the ritual of arrival, I'll make do with this.
Reading David Kynaston's Family Britain 1951-7 on the plane - a rather crazy idea of a light book, in terms of literal weight - shocking how familiar so much of it is, even though I've not yet got to the year in which I was born. It's not exactly analytical, for the most part, but wonderfully full of thick description - which (we'll move to the 1950s this week in my undergrad class) leaves me with an odd feeling that I'm somehow doing revision for a test on the period on material that's lodged somewhere in my brain, but fuzzily.