Off the Cliff

Amelia Peabody and her Master Criminal are getting on my nerves, so I've been having recourse to Sherlock Holmes, both the original and in pastiche. Both the original and the pastiches move me to reflect that the Victorian Era had many conveniences (for the middle and monied classes, of course) that must have proved a major impetus to the rise of labour unions. Three mail deliveries a day, for instance. But even this lavish attitude to other people's time and convenience fails to make me believe that there was *always* a train to the most god-forsaken reaches and the tiniest towns inside England, not merely several times a day, but usually within half an hour of whenever the need to get there first arose.

Though for all I know, maybe England really was as wrapped about with railway tracks as an overdecorated Christmas tree with lights and glitter chains. One just wonders how this left enough space for, yanno, fields and forests and the like.

I have discovered Toronto's Street View at Google maps. How fortunate that I seem to have trimmed my hedge some short time before the car went by. (For those tempted, Google maps thinks I live at 560 Clinton.)

(Oh, and there's the daycare with the triple stroller out front! I wasn't working that day because there's S's bicycle but not mine.)