Not, you'll be pleased to hear, yet another boring post about the whys and wherefores of H G Wells' fiction. Mind you...I don't think I've mentioned before that I used to shop in the same Windsor store that Wells was an apprentice window dresser in - shades of Mr Polly.
No, instead, the shapes of things to come here at the Hobbit bunker:
What ? Lumps of liquorice ?
No, some of Frontline's finest resin in 20mm. Recommended. Actually, the black, undercoated lump above will join these two below:
Either on their way to, or from, the Egyptian frontier.
Perhaps in as hopeful a mood as this chap below:
One of the few historical experiences I really do wish I had enjoyed is visiting Alexandria, not in the Classical period, when the Macedonians founded the place (did they ? Or did they just re-name it?), but in the 1940s, when it was a place of beauty, where the clear waters lapped the beaches, and Egyptian women sunbathed (yes, and wore clothes that reflected a degree of public freedom), Greek merchants sold stuff, and the Jews were still there - along with Britain and its cohorts. If you want to break your heart for somewhere you never knew, read Penelope Lively's latest. But, it's gone, like so much else, good and bad. I really must give up the Aussie wine.