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I really love T.R. Not only did I take him to Madame Tussaud’s Touristy Museum of Creepy Wax Famous People, but I went through the Chamber of Horrors and the Scream Room (where actual people jump out at you, mumble strange things, and otherwise startle you as you walk along in the dark). I did not need to take photos there because really, sitting next to a waxy George Clooney is not the same as the real thing (I hope!), but T. took a few. We did not take advantage of having our photos Warholed. We did not participate in the 4-D Superhero experience. We didn’t even buy stale popcorn or candy. I know I am old because there were several figures near one of the current famous vampire guys that I do not recognize at all; apparently being female helps with the task because T. had no clue either. The most authentically creepy part of the place for me is the display of the wax heads of guillotine victims, including Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and Robespierre; they were made from death masks of the actual people.

Because it was nearby and I needed a literary antidote to the massive dose of pop culture, we went to 221B Baker Street next, where there is a small museum. Doctor Watson is available to answer questions and pose for photos. T. humored me and then requested ice cream for lunch.

Thus refreshed, we walked toward the British Musuem. One reason I love walking is the sort of interesting prose one comes across in the process. This sign goes in my personal cache of signs I tend to misinterpret (like End Roadwork, the cause of my people). I was diverted just by the sign:



I prefer this blunt warning label to the kind we have at home:



This one I like because it informs you how polite it is:



Along the walk, T. developed a headache. I gave him some aspirin and took him directly to the café in the British Museum to get him some water and some non-ice-cream food (cashews, in this case) to see if that would take care of the problem. He did not feel better. I told him we could come back tomorrow, which seemed to take a load off his mind. He is now asleep. I’m sure he’ll be better tomorrow; we’ve been doing an awful lot of stuff and I think he’s just worn out a bit.

Update at posting time: T. is fine. He woke up long enough to eat a huge dinner and went back to sleep. I had run out of books, but I picked up a couple at the station on the way home, so I have now read Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, which is the kind of reading I prefer to do at the beach. It was only mildly diverting (hey, maybe the sign was pointing to the book?) and also mildly irritating.

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