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kittyfisher.bsky.social
Kitty
@kittyfisher.bsky.social
240 followers 220 following 2.9K posts
liking stuff since 1741. arctic expeditions, medical history, marine life, flouncy mantuas, the sea, perfume. Edward Forbes fan account.
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kittyfisher.bsky.social
Pop in to the bar where Oliver Reed boozed his last? In a highly tasteful exercise worthy of a bar frequented by sailors, you can get t-shirts with his final order on
Photo of Oliver Reed with a bra hanging on it, on a wall in The Pub in Valletta. Below it is a row of naval badges and patches and a board with ‘bullseye’ written on it for some reason
November 18, 2025 at 9:17 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Edward Forbes died #OTD in 1854, after a short illness/infection. He’d only recently returned to his beloved Edinburgh to take up a post as the university’s Professor of Natural History, a job he’d long wanted. I’ll be downing a glass or two of wine in his memory later.
Edward Forbes in 1844, probably in York. White man with collar-length hair seated poring over a book, leaning on his arm. Photo by Hill and Adamson, from the National Gallery of Scotland Forbes’ grave (obelisk on left) next to that of his close friend and collaborator John Goodsir, in Dean Cemetery, Edinburgh. Two light stone obelisks, the one on the right with a verdigris profile of Goodsir on. Forbes’ monument reads ‘Edward Forbes Naturalist Born February 12 1815 Died November 18 1854.’
November 18, 2025 at 12:28 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Words to keep in mind 👇🏻
Ultimately, don't let the worst "the other side" has done become the new low bar for your own behaviour. Don't treat people as symbols. Consider the possibility that where reasonable people disagree there may be some useful truth on both sides, even if it's only the truth of - as we say these days - "lived experience". Don't try to get anyone fired today. Don't insult or berate someone today. Don't trawl through someone's social media going back decades to dredge up the worst thing they've ever said, today. Don't, fundamentally, burn anyone at the stake today.
November 15, 2025 at 11:22 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Got this with a couple of bath bombs. Smells like chocolate orange and the name is completely fantastic, as a fan of Sonic Youth
Small, round, black shower gel sample from Lush with ‘Sonic Death’ written in white on the lid
November 13, 2025 at 8:53 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Scott intended that people should read the soundwave images as they’d read text, but of course that wasn’t and isn’t possible. But, in the 21st century, the people at First Sounds found a way to convert the images into something playable using software.
A phonautogram. Looks like a narrow white vertical spiral (a bit like DNA!) with dark lines, it’s white on a black background
November 12, 2025 at 12:39 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
The device, patented in 1857, was meant to mimic the action of the human ear (and in fact, a later attempt was made, in 1862, to make sound pictures using a tuning fork and human cadaver: www.firstsounds.org/research/oth...).
Not a cadaver. Black and white line drawing of a phonautograpb machine; a tilted drum on the left inscribes the lines on paper on the small wheel on the right, according to the vibrations produced by the sound
November 12, 2025 at 12:38 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
I don’t usually post about audio matters, and I’m not an expert…but here’s something wonderful. In the 1850s, French inventor Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville invented a device to visually record sound, using lines traced on paper. He called it the phonautograph and the images phonautograms. 🧵
Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville. Sepia photograph of man in his 40s wearing a frock coat, light trousers and a waistcoat in 1850s/60s style, standing facing the camera with his hand resting on a table
November 12, 2025 at 12:36 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Age yourself with gaming
Screenshot of Chuckie Egg (1983, I first played it in 1984 on an Acorn Electron. Many years later I briefly worked with one of the founders of Acorn and it was very hard not to fangirl). A very blocky screen with ladders and platforms and a tubby little man who has not collected any eggs, and in the top left corner a large yellow duck has escaped her cage and is coming for him
November 12, 2025 at 10:45 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Well, that’s me here all night now, trapped under a cat
A black and white cat looking at the camera, lounging on the photographer (who’s elegantly dressed in a burgundy robe) who’s lounging on a couch with a red throw
November 11, 2025 at 11:17 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Certainly in my garden
Good old Cornu aspersum. Three of them, enjoying a leaf, on a brown composite ledge
November 9, 2025 at 12:56 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
This is my paternal grandad, before he went off to war in 1914; he was 20 at the time and newly married. He was lucky enough to come back, but his health was never the same after being gassed. I never met him; he died in 1936.
Sepia photo of a young white man in a British army uniform, from 1914; he’s a corporal but I don’t know the regiment as everyone who did know is either dead or was too young to know/remember. He is standing in a studio, between a stand with flowers on and a wicker chair; his cap rests on the chair.
November 9, 2025 at 12:01 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
“Where’s your fucking poppy?”
Villanelle holds a knife to Eve’s throat, because she’s not wearing a poppy.
November 9, 2025 at 12:25 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Onward to snub noses (funny but crap) and hook noses (wife-beaters). I don’t make the rules, sorry.
The men with snub-noses are rather an amiable class of indivi-duals. There is a rich store of humour and drollery about their noses, which causes them to be much sought after as boon com-panions. They are often cunning shavers -“ men of infinite jest and most excellent fancy." Abstractedly considered, a snub-nose is not prepossessing. Looking at the nose itself, we would not form a high opinion of the mental or moral qualities of a man with such a nose; yet it is an undeniable fact, that many men who have been born into the world with snub-noses have frequently risen to great eminence, and in the race of life have oftentimes left behind them men with far better noses. Nay, we know instances in which men with most ridiculous-looking, little snub-noses, have contrived to step over the heads of men with large, imposing, aristocratical looking, Roman noses. There is no accounting for these things; they are beyond the reach of our philosophy to explain. The last class of noses to which we shall advert are hook-noses. They belong to the large order of the nasal organs, and are rather of rare occurrence. The paucity of such noses, however, is not much to be regretted. The men who have the misfortune to hare hook-noses on their faces are frequently "no better than they should be;" they are in general sly, insinuating rogues, who by cunning and much craftiness try to circumvent and cajole the simple ones of the earth. No good can ever be expected to come of a man having a hook-nose-"Let no such man be trusted." If we were a tender-hearted maiden, we would on no account fall in love with, far less wed, a man having a hook-nose. Such a man would in all probability commence beating his wife, even before the expiration of the honey-moon. We cannot explain why there should be so much wickedness in hook-nosed men, but such is the case. We should not like to go through Coventry with a man having a hook-nose.
November 8, 2025 at 9:40 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Next our nasal prognosticator looks at the shape. If anyone knows what a cock-nose is, do let me know. 2/
Noses differ from each other, not only in size but also in shape. Roman noses and aquiline noses are generally esteemed the handsomest; they belong to the large order of noses. There is something dominant and aristocratical in the form and expression of these noses which renders them very imposing. Such noses frequently belong to persons of superior intellect and high moral sentiment, and are often found indicative of great strength of mind and decision of character. Grecian noses are very beautiful and becoming in women, but we cannot say that we admire them in the male face; they give it a soft and silly appearance. We never knew a man with a Grecian nose who was not a confirmed nincompoop. Cock-noses and snub-noses belong to the small order of noses. This description of noses is much more numerous than any other; perhaps two-thirds of the population have their faces adorned with noses of this fashion. The family of the cock-noses, if not very respectable, are certainly very numerous. You cannot walk on the street, or go to church, or attend a public meeting, without seeing hundreds of men and women with such noses. The cock-nosed men are a busy, bustling race, remarkable for their self-conceit and cool assurance. They are always nestling themselves into snug, little, great, places; ever and anon they are becoming candidates for the office of town-councillor, commissioner of police, or magistrate, or some other place of honour, by which they will gain greetings in the market-place, and become entitled to the uppermost seats at feasts. Partway through the second paragraph, starting after ‘feasts’. Cock-nosed men are generally remarkally loquacious, and love to hear the melody of their "most sweet voices." Hence, at dinners they are constantly rising up and proposing toasts; and at public meetings some cock-nosed man is sure to "get on his legs” and raise an uproar by proposing an amendment or adjournment. The sense of the meeting may be clearly opposed to him, and on all sides his ears may be saluted with cries of "down, down," "off, off," "spoke, spoke," and other popular marks of disapprobation; but the cock-nosed man is not to be put down - he is determined either to carry his amendment or spoil the meeting.
November 8, 2025 at 9:36 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Bizarre phrenology-inspired piece on noses in the Illustrated London News, 28 May 1842. This bit is about the size <runs to mirror>

(Like many a nose, it’s too long for the alt text, hence the two identical pics) 1/
Notes on Noses. To put aside the extreme case of men without noses, we ask, was there ever an instance known of a man with a small, pitiful, paltry nose, distinguishing himself in arts, literature, or arms? We suppose not. Were Homer, Shakespeare, or Milton, or Raffaelle, or Correggio, Marlborough, or Collingwood, men with little noses? Has the "Iron Duke," the hero of a hundred fights, a little nose? If hr had, we are certain he never would have gained the battle of Waterloo, or become the Prime Minister of England. There is in truth, more in a nose than many people seem to imagine. Extremes, however, are not good. It is possible for a man to have too little, as well as too much, even of a good thing. This holds especially in the matter of noses. A man may have a small diminutive, tom-tit of a nose-in short, a mere apology for a nose; or he may have a remarkably large, powerful, aristocratical-looking nose, which seems to rule "lord of the ascendant" over all the rest of the features. As temperance is better than either drunkenness or total abstinence, so a medium-sized nose is better than either a very small or a very large nasal organ. If, however, we were by some overpowering necessity obliged to have either an exceedingly small or an exceelingly large nose on our face, we should prefer to have one of large dimensions. A man with a large nose, if he does not always rise in the world, very seldom sinks into the lowest current of society; his nose keeps him always floating above. He is generally, at least, decent, and frequently highly respectable in his character and conduct. Third paragraph: None of these things can be predicated of a man with a small nose: it is morally impossible that he can rise in the world; his nose keeps him down. Nobody likes to have anything to do with a man whose nose is contemptibly small; there is something suspicious about such a man. The man, in fact, feels this himself; he cannot look you in the face like one who has a full complement of nose, He is continually reminded of his paucity of nose. He cannot shave himself, he cannot wash himself, he cannot tie on his neckcloth, he cannot see the profile of his face on the wall, without being painfully reminded that his nose is less than the least of all noses. A feeling of insignificance steals over him; he feels that he is a mere cipher in society. He loses hope, becomes regardless of character and appearance, drinks to drown the recollections of his nose, and probably ends his days in obscurity, as a ballad-singer or a knife-grinder.
November 8, 2025 at 9:30 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
I did not bring my whole shell collection back (yet) because no room in the bag, but I did bring a few including this Liguus virgineus which I was given when I was about 5 and which was one of my favourites! Also known as the candy cane snail, it’s a tree-dwelling snail from the Caribbean.
Liguus virgineus shell. A small, conical-shaped shell with yellow, lilac, black and white stripes and seven whorls
November 5, 2025 at 7:57 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Heading back to London. Hwyl fawr, Môn
View across from the mainland back toward Anglesey at low tide. The small island in the centre distance is Puffin Island/Ynys Seiriol. The sky is grey and cloudy and lovely and the sea is calm
November 5, 2025 at 2:26 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
“A Prospected of ye 5th of November, showynge ye ‘Gvys’” from Manners and Customs of Ye Englyshe in 1849 by Richard Doyle
Black and white line drawing from the mid-19th century showing crowds of people including children, parading Guy Fawkes effigies for 5 November. One of the children is shouting “No Popery!” 😬 Two well-dressed men walk through looking at the scene
November 5, 2025 at 11:55 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Found this in the attic at mum’s - it’s from 1967 and I read the hell out of it as a kid. It’s where I first found out about the Franklin Expedition in 1983 or 84. Loads of other interesting stories in the book too! Also, here’s the start of the FE chapter; I assume the pic is McClintock & Hobson
‘The World’s Greatest Sea Mysteries’ book by Michael and Mollie Hardwick. A very well-thumbed hardback, with the dust jacket showing the title in yellow on a dark background above an image of a ghostly ship (the Flying Dutchman?) Chapter 11, ‘The White North Has Their Bones’ - start of chapter on the Franklin Expedition, with a black and white drawing of two white men in old-fashioned Arctic gear looking at what I assume is the Victory Point Note, while in the background other men stand around a small boat. The chapter begins with: There is little mystery now about the end of the men who sailed with Sir John Franklin in the ships Erebus and Terror, northward-bound, in 1845. But in mid-Victorian times it was the most discussed of unsolved puzzles. One attempt after another was made to unravel it, until, at last, sad, conclusive news came back to England. The story begins at the Battle of Trafalgar, for when the great Bellerophon sailed into action on 21 October, 1805, a young man called John Franklin was aboard her, serving in the dangerous post of signal midshipman. He was nineteen. Young Franklin was lucky. Of forty-seven men on the quarterdeck only seven survived the French barrage and he was one of them. Calm and collected, he carried out his orders and kept the colours flying throughout the battle, unheeding the hail of shot that was killing his messmates like flies. The roar of the guns was frightening, certainly, but it did not stop Franklin doing his duty. Unwounded, he returned to England with his ship, was [end of page]
November 4, 2025 at 11:39 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Harry Goodsir was born #otd in 1819. He doesn’t look a day over 22 in this 1842 portrait, though.

He would later die on the Franklin Expedition, and in 2009 his bones were tentatively identified as being those brought back by Hall in 1869 and buried under the Franklin memorial at Greenwich.
Slightly enhanced version of the 1842 calotype of Harry Goodsir. Faded sepia image of a young white man with receding dark hair, wearing a dark jacket and neckcloth and a light waistcoat, seated facing the camera and holding a book upright. Writing below it reads ‘1842 Dr Harry Goodsir’ (although he wasn’t a doctor). Most likely by John Adamson. From the Playfair Album, University of St Andrews Libraries and Museums, ID: ALB-8-90.
November 3, 2025 at 1:17 AM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Antiques Roadshow expert is wearing trousers that are absolutely giving ‘wannabe swell arrives in the big city and promptly gets swindled, c.1841’ energy
Bloke from the UK Antiques Roadshow wearing loud plaid trousers. (also a jacket and tie). Entire photo is somewhat blue, because this is my mum’s TV and she lives two meters below the surface of the sea, apparently
November 2, 2025 at 10:09 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Patrick Magee must indeed have been well thought of by his friends and former shipmates to merit this inscription. 58 years on the Irish Sea packets too!!

Although it’s a shame about the slight typo.
Slate grave slab with a crack right down the middle. The inscription reads: Underneath lie the remains of PATRICK MAGEE who died the 18th day of November 1849 aged 79 years. And who during an uninterrupted arduous Service of 58 Years on the Holyhead Packet Station in the capacity of Petty Officer Entitled himself by his diligence zeal and actiyity [sic] as such, and by his general moral conduct, to the regard and esteem of those with whom he sailed and to the approbation of the Departments of Government under which he served. Also Catherine his wife who died on the 24th day of February 1836. Aged 65 Years. And also two Infant Children of the above named.
November 2, 2025 at 2:34 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
The port (part of it) on a gorgeous Sunday. Trains and cranes and containers in front, and trawlers at the Fish Quay across the inner harbour. The land in the distance, across the water, is Anglesey.
Holyhead port - the inner harbor area - with a train in sidings in the near foreground, and shipping containers behind it. Behind those and across the inner harbour are several trawlers moored at the ‘Fish Quay’ and ‘Fish Dock’. The sky is blue with few clouds.
November 2, 2025 at 12:12 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Anyway it wasn’t all doom and gloom - he did find specimens of a few plants along the way, including Smith’s cress (Lepidium heterophyllum or Lepidium smithii as he knew it) which is in this photo. So all wasn’t quite lost!
Smith’s cress - green leaves topped with many small white flowers. You can tell I’m not a botanist. This photo from yep, Wikipedia.
November 1, 2025 at 3:59 PM
kittyfisher.bsky.social
Forbes arrived in town very early and headed up the mountain and onto the cliffs, covering around 8 miles, but to his great disappointment he found nothing and had to “set off to Bangor with a heavy heart and a long walk of twenty-six miles before me” according to a letter quoted in his memoir.
Holyhead Mountain (it’s not quite officially tall enough, but hey). Seen from a distance with fields and trees and houses in front. It’s about two miles from the coaching inn and still a bit of a challenge to walk up and around today, with very high cliffs dropping into the sea on the other side.
November 1, 2025 at 3:46 PM