The Byzantine themed fresco in the Cathedral was finished, being the first in an English Cathedral for eight hundred years. Its colours almost smelled of fresh flowers.
The souvenirs were buttock-clenchingly pricey. A roll of DH butterfly wallpaper sold for a modest 250GBP - enough to cover a toilet wall - and limited edition prints with not much on them stamped with various official seals guaranteeing authenticity had a price tag of several thousand. I'd dearly love to understand where art stops and fart begins, but, alas, I cannot.
By way of contrast, it was really quite nice to plan a trip to Oxford. Stripped bare of squadrons of students on bicycles, the town is reclaimed by tourists and locals - the aroma of learning and the stolid bulk of the Randolph was much as I had remembered it, persistent, unrelenting rain notwithstanding. It was good to catch up with an old friend in Oxford. Quintessentially tasteful, unmistakably English, his glass engravings are beautiful, sometimes breathtakingly so. I have owned a few of his pieces over the years and was glad to see him well, happy and a patriarchal grandfather of six. We shared an extended lunch, talked guitars and caught up.