Battersea smells like burnt toast in the mornings. I only recently discovered that this is because of the coffee roastery.

Goodbye London
I won’t forget that you were always good to me [x]

Thanks to the encouragement of my friend N, I have successfully made a cushion cover! I stabbed myself in the fingers about eleventy billion times, but aside from that, it was surprisingly easy. And on the plus side, very little of my terrible stitching is actually visible. (The awesome fabric came from Fabrics Galore in Battersea!)

escapekit:

London Panoramics

Uk based photographer Julian Calverley recently spent 3 long days shooting panoramic back plates in London. Each final piece consists of 3 stitched 80 mpxl files, so the resulting images reveal a truly stunning level of detail.

(via sea-change)

jothelibrarian:

Pretty medieval manuscript of the day is another lovely illustration in grisaille, shades of grey, but highlighted with blues and gilding. Really lovely!

Image source: SCA 40. Creative Commons licensed by medievalfragments via Flickr.

(via spineflorets)

my Tumblr photo uploader hasn’t worked for a week, getting really tedious

Turn back to the book open by your place. Before you begin to read again, think (despite yourself) of the progress of the dark. It has been dark in Tromsø since noon, the grey-painted rooms of Stockholm have been dim with evening for over an hour. The garlands painted on their panels are vanishing; roses no longer, but sedge and willowherb, flora of decline. Night has moved down island by island: Faroes, Shetlands, Orkneys. Stromness is dark now, the twin lights marking the channel reflect across the sheltered bay. Thurso and Wick are in the dark now. The last reflections of white gables glimmer in the firth at Cromarty. Uncurtained windows in the houses under the hanging woods, houses dispersed along the shore of the firth, show lamplight on white-painted panelling, Delft tiles around the grates. The light is going fast now, and already the afternoon has begun to fade, even in the cities to the south. The Edinburgh shore recedes, Anglepoise lamps are switched on in the artists’ rooms along the Fife coast. Newcastle is dim with mist from the river; wet cobbles reflect shop lights in Alston and Appleby; on the western slopes of the Pennines red sun flashes a moment in Black Moss then sinks in cold above Manchester.
Peter Davidson, The Idea of North

picadorbookroom:

This library cake is real.

[via]

(via natamoriensque)

The Strand is beautiful with buses,
Fat and majestical in form,
Red like tomatoes in their trusses
In August, when the sun is warm.

They cluster in the builded chasm,
Corpulent fruit, a hundred strong,
And now and then a secret spasm
Spurs them a yard or two along.

Scarlet and portly and seraphic,
Contented in the summer’s prime,
They beam among the jumbled traffic,
Patiently ripening with time,

Till, with a final jerk and rumble,
The Strand tomatoes, fat and fair,
Roll past the traffic lights and tumble
Gleefully down Trafalgar Square.

R P Lister, Buses on the Strand

how the fuck do you thread a needle

Do you know what a foreign accent is? It’s a sign of bravery.
Amy Chua (via theflowershop)

(via subadamantine)

talithatakesphotographs:

Görlitzer U-Bahnhof.

kathleenjoy:

1(a) Streets shall be designed Euro-Style with 300-ft right-of-ways, 
         benches, and flowered traffic circles, to provide a distinct sense of 
         beauty, regardless of cost.

1(b) There shall be a canopy of trees; these shall be your favorite: Giant 
         Royal Palms, 
25-ft high, whereas their fronds shall meet in cathedral-
          like arches with a continuous breeze that shall slip in our sleeves
          and flutter against our bodies so as to produce angel-like sensations 
          of eternity.

1(c) There shall be bushes; these shall also be your favorite: Tea Roses
      @2-ft o.c. to provide enough blooms for casual picking; whereas 
        said blooms shall spy on us from crystal glasses set next to the 
        stove, over coffee-table books, or in front of mirrors.

2(a) Sidewalks shall be crack-proof and 15-ft wide for continuous, 
         side-by-side conversations; painted either a) Sunflower-Brown
         b) Mango Blush, or c) Rosemont Henna; whereas such colors shall
         evoke, respectively: the color of your eyelashes, of your palms, the 
         shadows on your skin. 

3(a) There shall be an average of one (1) Parisian-style café per city 
         block, where I shall meet your eyes, dark as espresso, above the rim 
         of your demitasse, and hold your hand like a music box underneath 
         the table; where we shall exercise all those romantic, cliché gestures 
         we were always too smart for.

3(b) There shall also be one (1) open-air market per city block to facilitate
         the purchase of tulips, raspberries, white chocolate baci, and other
         gourmet items to lavish our lives; whereas every night I shall watch 
         you through a glass of brandy as you dice fresh cilantro and dill, 
         disappearing into the scent steaming around you.

4(a) Utility poles or structures that obstruct our view shall not be 
         permitted. At all times we shall have one of those following vistas: 
         birds messaging across the sky, a profile of mountains asleep on 
         their backs, or a needle-point of stars.

5(a) There shall be an Arts District and we shall float through gallery
          rooms on Saturday afternoons perplexed by the pain or conflict 
          we can’t feel in a line or a splatter of color; works that glorify or 
          romanticize tragedy shall not be allowed.

5(b) There shall also be a Historic District to provide residents with a 
         distinct sense of another time. We shall live there, in a loft with oak 
         floors, a rose-marble mantle where our photos will gather; our years 
         together will compete with the age of the brick walls and cobble 
         stones below our vine-threaded balcony.

(*) Without exception, there shall be a central square with a water 
      fountain where we shall sit every evening by the pageantry of
      cherubs, where we shall listen to the trickle of their coral mouths; 
      where I shall trust the unspoken; where you shall never again tell 
      me there’s nothing here for you, nothing to keep you, nothing to 
      change your mind.

(via sea-change)